Night Falling
by Philippa
Summary: Richard goes undercover at an exclusive private school to track down a vicious killer, while Bruce finds himself increasingly entangled with the alluring Selina Kyle.
1. December: Overture

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast

**A/N** Sorry for not having this up Saturday as promised. Nothing in my life seems to be going like I expect it to anymore :P.

To any new readers: This story is a sequel to my other Batman Begins stories _The Nestling_, _Toward a Dark Horizon_, and _Monkey See, Monkey Do._ It is a complete story in and of itself, and will make sense if you don't read the others. However, I would suggest that you at least read the _The Nestling_ (only six short chapters) in order to give yourself a feel for what I'm doing with the characters.

**Disclaimer** This story is for informal entertainment purposes only. I am making no profit from the publication of this story. I have no legal right to any characters copyrighted by DC Comics.

**NIGHT FALLING**

**Part One**

_Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast  
In a field I looked into going past,  
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,  
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.  
- "Desert Places"_

**Gotham – 26 months after Barbara Gordon's death**

Chapter 1

"_I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"  
- __A Christmas Carol_

"Ok bud, hand it over."

The frightened little man with his back to the wall started to shift the bags to his left hand so that the right would be free to reach for his wallet.

"No, dude, the bags too," the man with the knife directed.

"Yeah, especially the bags," his friend agreed.

"Please, it's just some gifts for my kids, please…" their victim stammered, reluctantly handing over the bags.

"Hey, I got kids too," the armed man said agreeably, motioning for his companion to take the bags. "I'm sure they'll love it. Now the wallet."

As the victim reached into his pocket, his eyes went wide and he froze.

"What's the matter, man, find a mousetrap in there?" one of his muggers taunted.

"Maybe just a piece of cheese," a soft, weirdly detached voice behind them suggested.

The two thieves spun, the one with the knife going into a defensive crouch. But their surprise changed to confusion as they stared at the slight figure in front of them. It had a floor length cape, and smooth cowl that covered its eyes and nose, dressed from head to toe in a color that seemed like it ought to black, but wasn't.

The guy with the knife laughed uncertainly. "Look, it's one of Santa's little elves."

"Seriously, have you two even tried picking on someone your own size?" the new arrival asked.

"Like you, little man?" Recovered from his fright, the one holding the stolen presents grinned.

"No," said the stranger calmly and pointed up. "Like him."

Both muggers spun, gazes frantically searching the empty rooftops. They didn't even understand their mistake as their knees buckled and sudden unbearable pressure on their necks brought blackness.

The figure in the cape absently nudged one of the bodies with his toe. "You have a phone to call the cops?" he asked the wide-eyed erstwhile victim.

"Y-yeah," the guy stammered.

"Then do it." He began to walk away.

"Wait!" the man cried. "Who are you?"

The stranger hesitated, then turned. "Call me Nightwing."

"Night…" Sudden understanding dawned on the other's face. "I know who you are. You're that Robin kid!"

A impatient hiss escaped from 'that Robin kid' and he shot upward, immediately lost from sight in the gray city night.

The man stood staring up at the sky for a dazed moment, then reached for his cell phone and hit speed dial. "Hey honey, you're never going to guess what just happened."

* * *

"Why can't they just call me Nightwing? Why?" Robin demanded, as he crouched next to his mentor. "It's simple, it's cool, and it makes way more sense than Robin Hood. I am so sick of jokes about men in tights!"

Batman ignored the tirade. "This is the third time you've used that little trick of yours. Knock it off before your luck runs out."

"It's not luck when I use it on guys who obviously have an IQ lower than a brick's."

"Don't take the stupid ones for granted," Batman warned.

"I…"

"Shhh," the Bat cautioned, pointing below. The warehouse they were observing was practically swarming with guys in dark clothes carrying mysterious boxes. The ones standing guard were cradling automatic machine guns.

"What's in there?" demanded Robin.

"It's an import company for fine rugs."

"Drugs?" the boy guessed.

"Yeah. They're pretty scattered," Batman answered, indicating the men below. "Can you glide to that roof there?" He pointed diagonally across the open space.

"Of course," Robin answered, sounding faintly insulted. On of the advantages of his small size was that he could glide farther than his mentor.

"Ok. Drop smoke in a straight line. Try to hit the roofs of the vehicles."

"Got it." Removing a fistful of cartridges from his belt, Robin backed up to give himself a running start. A moment later he was air born, the unique color of suit making him all but invisible against the dirty city sky.

Batman waited until the smoke billowed thickly below, pierced by cries of alarm. Attaching a tiny gas mask to the front of his cowl, he dove down, intent on making this quick and clean – the last job of the night.

* * *

James Gordon lay on his back and stared up into the darkness of his room. Aside from the low hum of the furnace the house was quiet, its occupants asleep. Turning his head on the pillow, he glanced over at the glowing green numbers of his clock which proclaimed 4:58. Actually, he was surprised Jimmy hadn't come tearing downstairs. He'd been threatening to explode for days unless he was allowed to open just one of the growing mound of presents beneath the tree.

Gordon closed his eyes and contemplated the many reasons why he was the only member of the household who was awake. This was their third Christmas without Barbara and her absence was still a noticeable emptiness in their lives.

Nevertheless, there were good things. Surprisingly, his relationship with his mother-in-law was one of them. Jane still lived with them, keeping things together at home and, Gordon had to admit, keeping him in line as well. But she was a rock of stability for the kids, and although she still detested his profession, they had at last formed a solid alliance, based largely on shared love for Babs and Jimmy.

And then there was Sarah. Gordon wasn't quite sure when his relationship with the detective had morphed from business to friendship to something deeper. He still didn't know how deep. What he did know was that she was coming over for dinner today, and he wasn't at all sure that his family was ready for it. _Maybe Christmas wasn't the best time to do this_, he told himself for the two hundredth time, but Sarah's family all lived on the other side of the country, and he wasn't about to let her spend Christmas alone, or, worse, at the precinct singles dinner.

On the bedside table, his pager emitted a series of urgent beeps.

_Please, not this Christmas_, Gordon pleaded even as he reached for the device. Forty minutes later, he was standing in the foyer of a shabby apartment building, having left a scribbled note on the kitchen table.

"Sorry to pull you out of bed on Christmas and all, Chief," Captain O'Hara apologized, "but I thought you'd want to see this one for yourself." The portly officer led the way to the second floor and ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape that marked the doorway of apartment E. The place was buzzing with activity as various CSI personnel snapped pictures and collected evidence. O'Hara led Gordon into the bedroom where a grisly tableau was laid out.

The corpse of a portly, middle aged man lay neatly arranged on the bed. It was dressed in a rather old fashioned pair of blue striped pajamas and the blankets were pulled up to its armpits, the hands precisely folded on top of the comforter. What marred the peaceful tableau was the blood smeared across the victim's jaw and neck and spattered on the white pillow case. Arranged on second pillow next to the head was a square of bloody teeth framing a quarter sheet of paper.

Gordon repressed a shudder. "Let me guess. The guy was a really bad dentist, and one of his patients finally cracked."

"Actually, we're not entirely sure what he did. The neighbor who phoned in an alarm didn't know."

"How'd she know to phone in?"

"Says she heard a funny kind of thump around four. She knocked on the door to see if everything was all right, and when she couldn't get an answer, she called the police."

"He was still alive when he lost his teeth," Gordon guessed, eyeing the amount of blood.

"That's what the M.E. says."

"Cause of death?"

"We don't know yet."

Gordon grunted and stepped closer to the bedside, peering down at the arrangement of dislocated teeth. "What is this?"

"It's an old riddle about teeth, sir."

_Thirty white horses on a red hill._

_Now they tramp,_

_Now they champ,_

_Now they stand still._

"Yeah, they're standing still all right," Gordon muttered. "You think we got another psycho on our hands?"

"I don't know," O'Hara admitted. "There's a chance it's just a vicious personal grudge."

"There aren't any media here yet," Gordon observed, glancing around.

"No. There's a fire over on the east side," O'Hara explained. "That's probably what's distracting them."

"Good. I don't want any of this in the papers." Gordon gestured toward the teeth. "As far they're concerned, this is just another Christmas b&e gone bad."

"Yes, sir. I thought that's what you'd want, but I thought you'd also want to be called."

_What about escalation?_ Gordon sighed as he remembered his long ago warning to the Batman. He hadn't, however, foreseen the waves of bizarre crime that would periodically sweep Gotham, typically initiated by some brilliant but sick criminal mastermind – like the guy who'd claimed to have been raised by penguins. Gordon still wasn't sure whether the villains were a side effect of the Batman, or whether both Batman and his foes were a product of Gotham's special blend of corruption, but he had to admit that every time the Bat (with not inconsiderable police assistance) took one of the masked fiends down, the city seemed to emerge a little saner, a little cleaner, a little more like a decent place to live.

"Chief?"

Gordon pulled away from his reflections to answer the puzzled O'Hara. "Yeah, you thought right."

O'Hara edged closer and asked in a low voice, "Should I make sure the roof is clear tonight?"

"Might be a good idea," Gordon agreed, glancing at his watch. "Just in case Santa and his reindeer decide to make a second round this year." With a little luck, he'd be back home before his kids got through their own presents and started on his.

* * *

"Really, Dick, you shouldn't have." Bruce looked down at the copy of _Mortal Ninjas: The Destructoid Saga IV_ he had just unwrapped, and then over at his ward who was smiling modestly.

"I know, I know. How did I pinpoint that one thing you desperately wanted yet wouldn't buy for yourself?"

"Oh absolutely. You read my mind."

"You know, down at the polo club they call me psychic Grayson."

"And yet," Bruce mused, flipping the case over to read the back, "I have the oddest feeling that I just unwrapped one of your gifts."

"Bruce! Would I do such a selfish thing? I mean, sure it's designed for more than one player, and sure you'll need me to walk you through the very complicated opening levels, but I'm shocked, _shocked_, that you could accuse me of such crass selfishness."

"Grayson, I think I can figure out how to play the game without you."

"Ha!" Dick snorted, then coughed into his fist. "I mean, sure Bruce, whatever you say."

The billionaire picked a piece of garland and threw it at the couch. "Put some tinsel in it, smart aleck."

"Thanks, but I prefer Alfred's fudge," Dick parried, picking up the candy dish that sat on an end table and selecting a piece.

Bruce looked helplessly at the butler. "When did he get so mouthy?"

Alfred was gathering up loose wrapping paper, but at the question he paused and glanced up seriously. "It pains me to say it, sir, but I believe he learned it from you."

Bruce sputtered in protest as Dick hooted, "Oh yeah! He shoots! He scores!" The teen broke off with a yelp and scampered off the couch as his two hundred pound guardian lunged toward him. A lively gift wrap battle ensued, undoing all of Alfred's efforts to tidy the room, and it didn't end until the butler blew a shrill blast on a police whistle that had been for some reason residing in his pocket.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but need I remind you that we have guests arriving in less than two hours, and you are both in your pajamas. In addition, this room is a disaster zone and I have dinner preparations to oversee."

Dick looked dubiously at the large garbage bag the butler was thrusting in his direction. "In other words?"

Alfred smirked. "Shape up, or you don't eat."

"Was it just me or did his Christmas joviality seem a tad lacking?" Bruce asked as the two of them scrambled around the room, picking up shreds of paper and ribbon.

"Maybe it was because you got him a tie. Again."

"Hey, he's hard to shop for," Bruce said defensively. "Besides, he liked it."

"You'll notice I was a little more imaginative with my gift."

"Ah, right, _Mutant Cheerleaders Attack X_. Very appropriate for a man who prefers the Garden Channel to Cartoon Network."

Dick threw up his hands despairingly. "You try to bring a little culture into people's lives and do they appreciate it?"

Bruce's answer was to bounce a large wad of wrapping paper off the back of his head.

* * *

Gordon ran the comb through his hair yet again and nervously eyed his reflection in the mirror. Was this shirt just a tad too tight across his stomach? And what about a tie? He was having a tough time deciding between a conservative dark green and the one Jimmy had given him that morning which displayed a large Christmas tree with actual working lights that twinkled in time to _O Taunebaum_ when you pressed the bottom.

Babs stuck her head through the door. "Hey Dad, did you pick up the cranberry sauce?"

Gordon spun in relief. "Babs, which tie?"

She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're wearing a tie?"

"We're having a guest!"

"Guests," Babs corrected. "Didn't Grandma Jane tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Trevor's coming. His Dad had to go to some big company thing at the last minute, so he's eating with us."

Gordon frowned. "I thought he spent Christmas with his mom."

"She had to go to a fashion show in Australia. No kids allowed. I couldn't let Trevor eat with the maids on Christmas."

He couldn't argue with that. He'd used much the same argument about Sarah. "All right. I stuck the cranberries in the pantry."

"Ok. The Christmas tree."

"What?" Gordon asked, confused.

"The tie. It'll make Jimmy happy." She disappeared down the hall and Gordon began knotting the strip of polyester and electrical wires around his neck, simultaneously trying for the umpteenth time to figure out what it was about Trevor Wren that he couldn't stand. Was it the kid's smooth way of talking or the intensity with which he occasionally regarded Babs? Whatever it was, Gordon couldn't deny that on the surface, at least, Trevor was a model boyfriend. He was polite and punctual, always had Babs home by curfew, kept the phone calls to a reasonable length, remembered her birthday, and always treated Gordon with the utmost respect. Jane adored him, but in the two years his daughter had dated the boy, he had never managed to warm up to the kid. Maybe it was just his cop's sixth sense gone overprotective, but whatever the truth might be, unless he came up with direct proof, Gordon had to tolerate Trevor's presence to remain on speaking terms with Babs.

"James!" Jane's voice suddenly called from downstairs. "James, come and help me pull the turkey out of the oven!"

Gordon gave a last nervous tug at his tie, accidentally setting off the lights, and ran downstairs.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** So we have begun! I'm heartily glad to be finally posting this chapter because it fought me almost from beginning to end. I think Chapter 2 will be easier, however, and I'll be trying hard to get back on the once a week update schedule that worked so well last summer.

Please leave a review and let me know how you think the opening of the new story went. Thanks!


	2. December: First Movement

**A/N** I'm starting to think this story should be renamed _The Case of the Missing Authoress_! Apologies again for the delay. I'm having an awful time getting into the writing rhythm this summer and it's driving me crazy!

Chapter 2

_Change means movement. Movement means friction. Only in the frictionless vacuum of a nonexistent abstract world can movement or change occur without that abrasive friction of conflict._

_- Saul Alinsky_

"Well, I thought that went pretty well," Trevor said as he parked his car next to one of the few spots along Gotham's river that wasn't considered life threatening. "I mean, your dad spent the entire afternoon glaring at me, except of course when he took time off to glare at you for laughing when Jimmy spilled the cranberry sauce down Sarah's sweater. Your grandmother almost split her personality by trying to be a gracious hostess while also freezing Sarah out, and you almost blew our cover by trying to show Sarah up as ignorant. You want to tell me what that was all about, Babs?"

"It's Barbara," she said coolly, "and I did not almost blow our cover."

"Oh yeah, because every senior at Bailey knows that most of Gotham's sex slave traffic actually comes out of Myanmar and not Thailand like she claimed the police thought."

"A fact which I could have very easily learned from your father, as I claimed, since he has a lot of business in that part of the world."

"It's a good thing our fathers don't actually talk to each other."

Babs scowled and muttered, "I don't know why she was talking about slave traffic on Christmas Day, anyway."

"Oh, maybe because you led her there." Trevor threw up his hands to forestall her protest. "Look, I didn't bring you out here to argue. But if you can't handle the simple fact that your daddy's got a girlfriend, maybe we need to rethink this partnership."

She flushed furiously, but as she looked at his serious face, the color slowly drained from her own. "You're right," she finally admitted. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

She leaned back in her seat and stared out the window at the December twilight. He watched her moodily, feeling the familiar frustration gnawing away at his self possession. Two years ago, when they had first formed their partnership, they had come to the mutual conclusion that a dating relationship was by far the best cover. Babs, however, had made it clear that she was consenting only for the sake of camouflage, and she had laid down a strict list of rules governing his behavior. Trevor had agreed without complaint, confident that within six months she would have forgotten all about her little list. Two years later, she had yet to bend even one of the rules, but his determination to convince her to do so had only grown stronger.

After what he judged a decent amount of time to let her cool down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a narrow box. "Merry Christmas," he said holding it out to her.

She took it wordlessly and opened it. Inside lay a watch with a band of delicate titanium links and an ivory face inscribed with Roman numerals.

"There's a recorder inside that will hold up to two hours. You can turn it on and off by pushing the button that adjusts the hands."

"Wow, this is great," she thanked him, picking up the watch and turning it over. T.W. + B.G. was inscribed on the back. "That was unnecessary," she muttered.

"I don't think so, considering that it's from your boyfriend of two years."

She made a face but laid it back in the box without further comment.

"I'd better get you home before your dad puts out an APB on us."

She nodded absently. "Yeah, maybe you'd better."

"I don't suppose you'd like to kiss me first for the sake of the season or anything."

She slipped the box into her purse, not looking at him as she answered, "Trevor, this is and always will be a business relationship, and when you pretend to forget that, it really gets on my nerves."

He rolled his eyes and put the car into reverse. "You could really stand to work on your concept of Christmas spirit."

"Don't push me, Trevor. It hasn't exactly been a good day."

* * *

As always, the front door to Wayne Manor swung open before Alex could knock.

"Dr. Peaceable, good evening."

"Hello, Alfred. I'm sorry to barge in on Christmas, but I really need to see Mr. Wayne for a few minutes."

"Yes, of course. If you'll just wait in the small library, I'll him know you're here."

The small library had very little resemblance to any kind of actual book collection, and Alex suspected that it had been created precisely for the purpose of stowing unexpected visitors until they could be dealt with. The butler helped him off with his coat, and, with the reassurance that Wayne would be with him shortly, left.

Alex sank into an overstuffed leather chair and wondered uneasily what his employer's reaction was going to be to the news he was about to reveal. After coming perilously close to crashing and burning all those months ago, Alex had created a surprisingly solid working relationship with Bruce Wayne. The tutor credited the miracle to a change in his own perspective. Instead of despising the billionaire as a vain, shallow, and completely irresponsible playboy, Alex now pitied him as a man still haunted by his own painful past. Alex had also accepted that Wayne was willing to take full responsibility for at least one area of his life when it came to the well being of his ward. Although the personal interactions of the two men were still conducted with a formal politeness, the barely veiled animosity of the first few months was gone.

Alex was meditating into the glowing depths of a seasonally appropriate fireplace when he heard the door open and footsteps announced Wayne's presence. "Dr. Peaceable, this a little unexpected. I don't suppose you dropped by just to wish me a Merry Christmas."

"No. That is, I do hope it was very merry."

Wayne smiled faintly. "It was, thank you. How is your mother?" At Alex's startled look he explained, "Dick's mentioned meeting her."

"She's doing very well, thank you." Wayne dropped into the chair across from him, and Alex resumed his own seat. "For the past year, I've been corresponding with a South American mathematician. I don't know whether Dick has told you anything about my own work…"

Bruce shook his head. "Not really."

"I'm not surprised. It's abstruse and pretty dull stuff unless you happen to be into math, but suffice it to say that this professor is one of the world's leading authorities on what I happen to be interested in."

"He needs funding?" Wayne guessed.

"No!" Alex exclaimed with more force than necessary, horrified at the thought that Wayne would think he was asking for a handout. "But he has invited me to come and spend three months with him in Colombia."

"I see," Wayne said slowly. "But that interferes with your contract here, doesn't it?"

Alex hastily plunged on. "Here's what I'm thinking: Dr. Marquéz has great DSL, despite the fact that he more or less lives in the middle of the rainforest. I've actually had a video conversation with him. I'm sure I can do Dick's lessons the same way. And it will only be for three months." He was embarrassed to hear the note of pleading that had crept into his voice. "I realize it's not ideal, but this is the chance of a lifetime for me."

Wayne nodded. "I can appreciate that. I'll discuss it with Alfred and Dick, but on the surface I don't see any problem with the idea."

Feeling gratitude toward Bruce Wayne was a novel experience for Alex, but he embraced it gladly. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"Thank the Internet. Otherwise, I'd be sending him with you." Wayne paused, then smiled. "On second thought, Colombia isn't the healthiest of atmospheres. I'd have to transplant your foreign genius here instead."

"I'm afraid you'd find that a little difficult. Dr. Marquéz is very reclusive."

Wayne looked cynical. "Everyone's for sale, Peaceable. Some people's price is just a little more original than most. That's all."

_Did he really have to go and ruin the moment?_ Alex exasperatedly asked himself, but he refused to let Wayne's, well, _Wayne-ness_, taint his good mood and stood to leave. "Thanks again. I'll go now and let you spend the rest of your Christmas in peace."

Wayne nodded and offered his hand. "Good night," he said as they shook. "And Merry Christmas."

* * *

Batman peered at the riddle through the evidence bag.

"The answer is teeth," Gordon offered, just in case the Bat wasn't up on old riddles. "And it was sitting on a pillow surrounded by a ring of them."

"The victim's?"

"Yes. Except…there was an odd thing. One of the teeth was false, and it didn't belong to the body. We got DNA off it, and it belongs to a woman, but no one related to the victim. We have no idea who the real owner might be."

"You think it's the killer's? She's leaving clues to her own identity?"

Gordon shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. It could have been done by a woman. The killer forced the lock on a window while the victim was asleep and duct taped his hands and ankles together and his mouth shut. Then she used a scalpel to destroy his vocal chords. Knew just where to cut to leave him alive."

"Did you find the knife?"

"No, but the M.E. says it had to be a surgical blade."

"After making sure he couldn't yell, she pulled out his teeth," the Bat guessed.

"Yep, and then smothered him with his own pillow. She took the tape off, tucked him in, arranged the teeth with the riddle, and then pushed over a china cabinet in the living room. That's what alerted the neighbor."

"Why?"

"As far as we can tell, nothing else in the apartment was touched, so either the killer wanted to make it hard to discover that something in that cabinet was gone or she just wanted to attract attention."

"Without the noise, how long would it have been before someone would have noticed that he was missing."

"Could have been a while. As far as we can discover he had no family and no close friends. He also worked at home."

"Who was he?"

"Gilbert James Osmond, although he only published his work under his initials. He was a cartoonist for the Gotham Globe."

"G. J. O.," Batman muttered. "Isn't that…"

"The artist for the _Anti-Bat_ strip? That's the one."

Six months ago, a new cartoon had appeared in the Gotham Globe funny pages. Simply called _Anti-Bat_, it dealt exclusively in highly vitriolic commentary on the Batman, accusing him of everything from organized crime to Neo-Nazism. Despite attempts by both Bat supporters and antagonists to contact him, the artist had remained elusive, known only by the GJO scrawled in the corner of each strip.

"Someone finally caught up with him," the Bat muttered, handing back the evidence bag.

"Did you ever look into him?" Gordon asked.

"I had no reason to."

"He didn't like you very much."

"Lots of people don't like me. I worry about the ones with guns, not the ones with pens."

Gordon sighed. "I wish I could say the same. Ever since Loeb came back from Metropolis and got reappointed as Commissioner, he's been all over my back. He's desperate for a way to fire me."

"We'll handle Loeb," the Bat promised.

Gordon eyed his masked ally uneasily. "I wish I had your optimism. Loeb's got a lot of influence."

The Bat remained unperturbed. "So do I. So do we."

* * *

Dick turned up the collar of his shabby, too-thin coat and huddled closer to the wall, waiting for the current gust of wind to die down before he headed on. He had been drifting around Gotham's streets for a couple of hours, looking and memorizing. Bruce had impressed upon him that paper knowledge of the city wasn't enough – personal observation turned up all sorts of discoveries that weren't recorded on maps but which could literally be lifesavers in the right situation. It was only in the last month that Dick had finally convinced his guardian that he could go solo on these innocuous expeditions, but as much as he enjoyed the freedom of roaming the streets alone, he was ready to call it a day and go home to thaw his extremities.

The wind's pitch dropped a notch and he moved on, keeping his head down but still noting that a previously useful fire escape on an apartment building was now broken and that the convenience store next to it had boarded its windows. He drifted to the end of the street, plotting a winding route to the train station, and took refuge in a drugstore doorway to wait out another particularly bitter burst of wind. He could hear excited shouting around the corner, and he edged curiously around the building. A soccer game was in full swing in the parking lot, despite the biting late December cold and the hazardous patches of ice that spotted the cracked asphalt. Even as Dick watched, one of the players slipped and landed hard, but he bounced up again and pelted toward the far end of the lot to defend his goal.

Dick huddled against the wall and tried to pick out who belonged to which team. It wasn't difficult and he soon had the boys sorted into their opposing sides. One team was mostly black kids. They played well, coordinating moves and acting as a unit. The other team was composed of a variety of races, and they were on the whole smaller and less organized. However, they were definitely scrappy and they seemed to know the lot better than their opponents since they rarely tripped over the potholes. Dick smiled as the shortest member of this team ran straight up to a guy twice his size who was barreling down the lot with the ball and tried to steal it. He didn't succeed, but he forced a pass which was intercepted by his team. The short kid made an insulting gesture before turning away, but as he did, his opponent stuck out a foot and tripped him.

The kid hit the ground hard, and when he tried to get up, his leg gave out and he fell back down. "Time out!" somebody screamed, and the next minute the short kid's team was huddled around him. One of them, slightly taller than Dick and wearing a red hat, pulled the little guy to his feet and helped him limp to the sidelines. The tallest member of the other team followed them, and when the trio stopped, they were close enough to Dick to let him eavesdrop.

"Are you ok, Demetrios?" the little guy was being asked by his teammate.

"Yeah. I just twisted it. Sprained it a little, maybe. Man, mama's gonna kill me!"

"And me too. You'd better sit the rest of the game out."

"What game?" the captain (Dick assumed) of the other team sneered. "You're a man down, Niko Freako."

"So we'll play a man down and still kick your butts." The kid in the red hat glared up fiercely.

"Ah, no, sorry. The rules are you play a full team or you don't play at all. These are the playoffs, Freako."

"I can still play," the short kid piped up.

"No way," Niko snapped. "You could really get hurt. Just give me five minutes and I'll find another player."

"Timeouts are only two minutes. That was in the rules too, or maybe you don't know how to read. Well it was nice … not playing with you." The tall kid laughed and started to walk away.

Niko looked around desperately. "Hey, you!" he shouted in Dick's direction.

Dick glanced around and realized that he was the one being addressed. "Me?" he asked as Niko jogged up.

"Yeah. You ever played soccer?"

"Not much," Dick answered cautiously.

"Look, it's the south side playoffs, and if I lose this game we're out. You don't even really gotta play. Just stand out there so that I have a full team. Here," he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a bill. "Five bucks, it's all I got."

"Keep the money," Dick said before he realized that he'd made up his mind. "I'll play."

"Thanks, man," Niko said fervently before leading the way out onto the lot. "Stop celebrating!" he shouted at the opposing team who were slapping each other on the back. "I got my substitute."

Their captain looked Dick up and down contemptuously, then shrugged. "All right, Freako. Your funeral."

Niko grit his teeth and clenched his fists as the other boy turned away. "That guy is such a dick," he muttered, then shrugged as if he was shaking something off his back. "By the way, I'm Niko," he offered, turning back.

"D…R…ick. I'm Rick," Dick managed, mentally kicking himself for not having dealt with the problem of his nickname before this.

Niko's eyes narrowed momentarily, but he shrugged again and started pointing out the rest of the team. "That's Carlos, Pete, Manny, Sun, Jake, Tim, Stefano, Lucas, and Little Joe. Our goal is that way, so don't kick the ball there, and don't touch the ball with your hands."

Dick, now Rick, grinned. "I do know that much."

"Great." Niko made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Everyone, this is Rick, he's on our team. Let's play."

The ball exploded out of a knot of boys, and Dick suddenly found himself in the middle of a merciless melee. There was no ref, and neither side had any scruples about tripping, elbow gouging, or name calling. All in all, it was not unlike a street fight, and Rick soon got his bearings and managed to block a pass by the other team and transfer the ball to Tim before getting shoved from behind. He scrambled up in time to receive a congratulatory slap on the back from Niko as he raced past.

Rather than playing timed halves, the street playoff games ran to a set number of points, four in this case. Fifteen minutes after Rick entered the game, the teams were tied at three and the light was fading fast. Pushed the current of the players, he slipped on a patch of ice and skidded to the sidelines, just inside of bounds. Before he had quite caught his balance, the ball cannoned toward him, arriving at shoulder level a couple of feet to the left. Without thinking, he jumped and kicked. The ball shot past the shocked defense and squeaked into the top corner of the goal as the goalie's lunge landed him face first in a pile of slush.

The next thing Rick knew, he was mobbed by all ten of his teammates who were screaming and dealing out forceful high fives. "I though you hadn't played much soccer!" Niko yelled, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him joyfully. "That was amazing! I've never seen anyone kick like that!"

"I've played other sports, with uh…kicking in them," Rick offered weakly.

"Whatever, man. If you wanna play soccer, you can play for me, anytime!"

Rick grinned. "Thanks." After another minute of celebrating, he unobtrusively slipped out of the edge of the crowd and headed for the train station.

"Hey, Rick, where you going?"

He looked back to see Niko shouting after him. "I'm late for dinner!"

"Remember, anytime you want to play!"

"I will!" He waved and resumed walking, trying to remember the last time he had felt so pleased.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** As always, a tremendous thank you to all reviewers – your response to the last chapter was wonderful. Please keep it up!


	3. New Year: Leitmotif

**A/N** Ergh. I can't believe I've averaged a grand total of one chapter a month this summer! Sigh. The harsh realities of graduate school are really settling in this semester. I promise I will not give up on this story, but the updates will probably continue to be slow. sad pandas abound On the bright side, I did get a lot of work done on an original piece this summer (go me!), and this chapter is lovely and long. Enjoy, my wonderful reviewers!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

Chapter 3

_Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend._

_- Agatha Christie_

Bruce picked up the ends of his tie and frowned intently into the bathroom mirror.

"You should just wait for Alfred," Richard informed him from his seat on the counter.

"I can tie my own tie, Dick."

"Rick, Bruce, it's Rick now. One letter different, how hard can that be to remember?"

"You know, the first time you met Alfred you made a point of being called Dick."

"I was eight, what did I know about the crudities of the world?" Richard idly pulled open a drawer and rummaged through its contents. "Can I have this?" he asked, holding up an electric razor by its neatly coiled cord.

"For what? Your teddy bear?"

"I have been shaving for two months. I think I deserve a little respect."

"You mean you've been plucking for two months … agh!" Bruce's cry of anguish was inspired not by Richard's threatening move with the razor but by the suddenly lopsided bow in his hand. Pulling the crumpled tie free from around his neck, he picked up a fresh one.

"And I have my own shaving equipment, thank you. Actually, I wanted it for parts. The micro-blades come in handy."

"Go ahead, I upgraded two months ago."

"Thanks." Richard sat tossing the razor in one hand, watching with interest as Bruce mutilated his second tie and punctuated the occasion with a few foreign expressions. "Alfred said you're not supposed to speak Chinese in front of me," the boy remarked.

"That wasn't Chinese. Now shut up before I use that thing on your head."

Prodded by the remark, Richard curiously examined his physiognomy in the mirror. "Do you think I should dye my hair? It's such a weird color."

Bruce spared a second from his tie-bowing efforts to glance at his ward. Richard's hair had slowly darkened over the years, from light gold to a murky shade that was neither blond nor brown.

"Tanya suggested black," the boy suggested, "but I don't know."

"Who's Tanya?"

"She works in the stables at the club. Blond, about one twenty-five, I'd say a size … six."

Bruce stared at him. "Since when do you estimate women's sizes?"

Richard leaned back on his hands and quoted glibly, "'A man should be able to size a woman at first glance. I personally believe that knowing a woman's size will tell you a lot about the way she sees the world, and consequently, tell you whether you want to date her.' You said that in a _People_ interview two years ago."

Bruce frowned dourly, although whether it was because of his ward or his demolished third tie was unclear. "If you ever quote an interview to me again, I will personally see to it that you eat the paper it was printed on. _What is wrong with these ties?_"

"The same thing that is always wrong with them, sir," Alfred's longsuffering voice said from the doorway."

"I mean, it's not like I don't ever tie one successfully," Bruce griped, allowing his butler to take over.

"One in seven seems to be your average, sir," Alfred informed him, stepping back to view his handiwork with a critical eye. "That ought to do."

"Thanks," Bruce sighed, reaching for his jacket. "You sure you don't want to come, kid?"

"I know, how can I stand to pass up this brilliant opportunity to watch a bunch of people dressed up like penguins get drunk?"

"You've been watching Mary Poppins again, and I thought you'd like the opportunity to practice your sizing."

"Nah, that's what we have five hundred channels for."

Alfred's eyebrows rose marginally as he glanced from one smirking male to the other. "By the way, Master Wayne, I blocked channels 69 and 147 as you requested, as well as 111, 134, 156, and 345."

"69!" Richard exclaimed. "I told you that was research!"

"Yeah, research. Like that one hasn't been tried before." Bruce said as he buttoned his jacket.

"By you, sir, if memory serves," Alfred put in.

"Five hundred channels, and all I'm allowed to watch is BBC News and the Discovery Channel," Richard mourned.

"Don't forget PBS," Bruce said brightly. "You need more Mr. Rogers in your life."

Ten minutes later, Bruce was behind the wheel of his Audi, speeding toward Gotham's biggest New Year's Eve bash. The great thing about New Year's Eve, he reflected, was that you could disappear when the clock struck twelve, and everyone would just assume you had moved on to another party. The down side was that he would have to put up an even bigger pretense of partying than usual. He would, of course, end up fully clothed in the pool, a move that had almost become his trademark. The party wasn't considered a success unless he allowed some idiot to sneak up behind him and shove him into whatever water was available. Tonight it would be the pool. At least, he was fairly certain it was too cold for the fountains to be running.

He pulled up in front of Casino Windsor and let an obsequious valet get his door. There was a red carpet rolled out to the curb, and another attendant with an umbrella to shield him from the icy pellets that had begun to rain down. A flurry of clicks and flashes pursued him toward the door, no doubt belonging to representatives of media outlets not fortunate enough to get an invitation inside. Anyone, of course, could come and play, but the special holiday cover charge, if not waived by an invitation, was so ridiculously high that it simply wasn't worth it to many of the smaller papers. The reporters would get their snow blurred shots of arrivals and then go home to warm beds or parties of their own. Bruce felt a brief stab of envy as he crossed into the hotel's warmth, but New Year's Eve was simply one of those things that couldn't be helped.

Rather than heading toward the casino floor, he made his way to the front desk of the hotel lobby. "Would you ring Ms. Couture's room for me, please?" he asked.

"Of course, Mr. Wayne," the desk attendant said politely. She had no doubt been primed with photographs of every expected guest worth more than five million. "You can go right up," she told him after she had made the call. "Suite 3790."

"Thanks," Bruce said and headed toward the elevators.

Irina Couture was the hottest new thing on the Paris fashion runways. Half Russian, half French, blond, size 0, she was also Bruce Wayne's latest flavor of the month, as _Gotham Gossip_ put it. They had been seen together three times in the last two weeks, and Bruce had already determined that tonight would be the last. Fortunately, he was convinced that Irina was using him much as he was using her – for the sake of the press – so it shouldn't be difficult to engage her attention with another lucrative option.

It took her almost a minute to answer his knock, and when she did she obviously wasn't ready to go since her feet were bare. "Come in," she invited, some vaguely European accent tingeing her words. He guessed that her English was probably perfect and that the accent was for effect only. She tilted up her cheek and he obediently kissed it, trying not to wrinkle his nose at her overpowering perfume.

"Ready to see in the New Year the American way?" he asked lightly as she led him into the suite.

"I am looking forward to it," she purred, waving him toward a seat. "Shall we have a drink before we go down?"

"Thanks, but I prefer to start at the party," he said casually, dropping onto the sofa. It was easier to hide the liquor in a room full of people.

She hesitated at the mini bar, her hand already curled around a bottle of cognac. "We could start the party up here."

Bruce resigned himself and accepted the glass of amber liquid. "To the most beautiful thing in the room," he said easily, lifting his booze in her direction as she perched on the arm of the sofa.

"Bruce, you are so sweet!" She touched her glass to his and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. "I was wondering if I might ask a small favor of you tonight."

"Only a small one?" he questioned, trying to keep the cynicism out of his voice.

"Very small. There is a man I would like to meet."

He lifted a dark eyebrow. "Introduce you to other men? That would be quite a sacrifice on my part."

"Hardly." She gave a tinkling laugh, then placed a finger under his chin and leaned close. "Everyone knows that four dates is Bruce Wayne's absolute limit."

It was a frequently repeated statistic in the tabloids, and he didn't try to argue. "Who is the lucky fellow?"

"Lex Luthor."

Bruce looked surprised. "Luthor? I hadn't realized he would be here tonight."

"Oh yes. Nice of Mr. Manetti to invite the competition, isn't it?"

Since Lex Luthor had bought the Deep Harbor Casino nearly two years ago, it had been closed for renovations. Its grand re-opening was scheduled for the end of January.

"Very nice. I have to tell you that I've never actually met him."

Irina shrugged. "But you will tonight, and then you have only to mention my name. I will do the rest."

Rumor had it that Luthor preferred brunettes, but if she was up on Bruce Wayne's dating limits, then no doubt she was also aware of Luthor's. "Whatever you like," he promised.

"You are sweet," she said again, then set down her glass and picked up a pair of rose colored stiletto heels that had obviously been dyed to match her strapless gown. "Help?" she asked, making her clear blue eyes wide and innocent.

It was a small price to pay for an easy breakup. Bruce obediently knelt and buckled the satin straps as she extended one long leg and then the other. "Ready?" he asked, pulling her to her feet.

"More than ready," she purred, picking up her small purse and leading the way to the door.

On the casino floor, he slipped an arm around her waist and smiled brilliantly as cameras snapped before guiding her to the cashier. "Twenty thousand," he said, passing over his bank card. "And the same for the lady."

"Bruce, you are so sweet!" she cooed approvingly.

He was beginning to get tired of that word. "I want you to have a good time."

They settled for a while at a roulette table, but Irina paid little attention to the ball ricocheting around the wheel. Instead, her eyes scanned the crowd, looking, Bruce knew, for Lex Luthor.

They lost a little and moved on. One of Irina's friends waved her over to a blackjack game, and for a while she seemed to forget about her prospective quarry. Bruce didn't play but split his attention between watching her and the rest of the crowd, idly toying with the stem of a cocktail a house attendant had pressed on him.

After half an hour Irina pushed back her chair, her eyes glinting with frustration. She had lost three thousand dollars and professed she was ready to move on. "But first," she said in her charming accent, "I must … how do you Americans say it … powder my nose?"

"Only in the old movies," he replied, and escorted her to the ladies' room. A server pressed another drink on him as he waited outside. He swirled it idly, looking for a place to dump it, and he had just settled on a convenient potted palm when a furious brunette stormed past him. He waited until she was safely inside the restroom before casually tipping his glass over the dirt.

"The alcohol is really very bad for the roots," an amused voice informed him.

Bruce looked over slowly, already knowing who he would see. Selina Kyle, looking even more stunning in her black cocktail dress than he had remembered, stood smiling at him.

"Cheap rum," he explained, setting the glass on a low table and walking forward. Her eyes were an even deeper blue than he had remembered. "How are you? It's been awhile." Awhile since he had seen her in person, at any rate. The burning kiss they had shared two years ago had figured prominently in a few very pleasant dreams.

"Busy. Acquiring things for Lex Luthor is an overtime job."

Bruce tilted his head questioningly. "I thought you were in charge of gilding his reputation?"

"That too. Congratulations, by the way, on Wayne Enterprises' new conquest."

The board had just finished negotiations with the government on a set of contracts. Unlike the armaments projects that had predominated under William Earle's reign, however, these were for agricultural equipment destined for overseas relief programs.

"Thanks," he replied with a rather vacant smile.

Selina leaned forward confidentially. "Tell me, how did you get your proposal before the senate committee so fast?"

"I'm really not up on all the technicalities," he apologized.

"In that case, you probably aren't aware that LexCorp was also planning a bid."

"Were they?" he asked innocently.

"Oh yes. A very generous one. But, as my employer is fond of saying, let the best man win!"

Somehow, he doubted that Luthor really had such a generous attitude toward his competition. "Look, we're at a party. Let's not talk business tonight."

Her eyes were glittering with amusement, and he was certain she had seen through his evasions. But she acquiesced, responding, "Of course not. I wouldn't want to strain any of the faculties you'll obviously be needing tonight."

"You're mean," he accused.

"Only to people I like," she promised.

"Selina, there you are." The smooth voice belonged to a man who was internationally renowned for his wit, sophistication, and business acumen. But perhaps he was most famous for nothing other than his brilliantly bald head. Lex Luthor laid a possessive hand on Selina Kyle's arm and said, "I was beginning to think you'd deserted me as well."

"I ran into an old friend," she replied, looking at Bruce.

_More of her irony_, he thought. He could hardly be considered an old friend when they had met only once.

"Bruce Wayne." It was a statement, not a question. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." Bruce met Luthor's charming smile and reached out to shake his hand. Expecting a strong grip, he was surprised when the other man's bony fingers slid limply out of his grasp. Momentarily disconcerted, he caught the flash of amusement in the pale eyes and felt a prickle of irritation.

A staccato tapping of heels came from inside the bathroom, and the angry brunette reappeared in the doorway. She froze, staring at the trio in front of her.

"Lauren, I thought you'd left," Luthor said.

The brunette jerked her chin up. "One of us is leaving," she said coldly, "me or her." Her murderous gaze turned on Selina. "Which will it be, Lex?"

"I don't why you're asking me, Lauren, you're a grown woman. Selina already makes her own decisions." There was a faint tinge of malicious enjoyment in his tone. Selina merely looked bored.

"Have it your way then," Lauren hissed and stalked away from the bathroom and toward the exit.

The moment she moved, Irina appeared in her place. "What an unpleasant woman, she would not let me out," she complained in her charmingly accented voice.

_Perfect_, Bruce thought. He would be shed of the model before the evening was half over. "Irina, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine." Selina smiled faintly as he shot her own words back at her. "This is Selina Kyle. She is invaluable to LexCorp. And this, of course, is the man himself, Lex Luthor."

Irina barely gave Selina a glance before turning all of her not inconsiderable allurements on Luthor. "Mr. Luthor, this is such an honor! I have heard so much about you."

Luthor took his time looking her over, a gleam of interest appearing in his pale eyes. "You've heard nothing good, I'm sure."

Irina's brilliant eyes widened. "But on the contrary! And besides, a man who is all good is always a little boring, no?"

"That's one way of looking at it," he agreed. "Bruce, there's a rather different party going on in the back rooms. Why don't you and your charming companion join us?"

Bruce inwardly debated. On the one hand, a game in the back room probably meant serious, high stakes poker, which might be difficult to leave early. On the other, he was curious to observe Luthor at close range. And on a third hand, if he had had one, refusing might cause Irina's invitation to be retracted. "Sounds good," he said easily.

Luthor stepped forward and with an old fashioned gesture that nevertheless managed to be utterly suave, he offered his arm to Irina. "May I?"

She took it, laughing a little. "And they say there are no gentlemen in America."

Bruce followed the pair, Selina walking by his side. She cast a sideways up at him and remarked, "You don't seem to be upset by the fact that you have lost your date."

He smiled a little. "Let the best man win."

She surprised him by chuckling softly. "I suddenly get the feeling you're playing a different game."

The "back rooms" were a series of elegant salons, dedicated to the use of serious and very, very rich card players. They were much quieter than the main floor, and set up with a variety of well spaced tables. There were no mirrors or other reflective objects.

The four of them joined a game of five card draw, where three players were just leaving. The minimum bid was a moderate thousand.

"So, Lex, did you come to check out the competition?" Bruce asked, as he threw in his chips.

"I prefer to think of myself as supplementing the variety of entertainment available in Gotham City, rather than competing against what's already here," Luthor said smoothly, tossing his chips after Selina, who sat between them, folded.

"That's a good line," Bruce approved.

Luthor arched his nearly non-existent eyebrows. "Who says it's a line?"

"Sorry, no offense intended," Bruce said easily, tossing down his three of a kind.

Irina, who had drawn a royal flush, squealed excitedly as the pot was pushed toward her.

"No offense taken," Luthor finally answered as the next hand was dealt. "By the way, I'm having a little house party just prior to the grand opening of my new venture. I hope you'll join us. And you too, of course, Ms. Couture."

"I'll have to check my schedule," Bruce replied, keeping a note of interest in his tone so that the words would not be taken as an insult.

"Clear your schedule, it'll be worth your while," Luthor promised.

"The party of the New Year," Selina added, with only a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

"I will come," Irina promised. "I am shooting in New York all this month."

"You should consider Metropolis," Luthor suggested.

Irina's mouth pulled down in a perfect pout. "But you will be here, with your new casino, so what is left to interest me in Metropolis?"

Luthor smiled at her, an expression that reminded Bruce of a hungry panther. "What's a plane ride?"

She laughed, and when she reached out to put her chips in the center, her arm brushed against his.

The game continued, with Luthor playing recklessly and losing heavily. Irina, on the other hand, was enjoying a streak of excellent luck, and her crows of triumph grew increasingly triumphant as she raked in pot after pot. Bruce played carelessly, managing, through no fault of his own, to break about even. He noticed Selina was doing the same, although her game was more cautious, and wondered if the stakes were high for her or if she was merely bored by the game as he was.

Shortly before midnight, Luthor's chips ran out. Irina, who had pushed the bid up to include half of her night's winnings, generously offered to accept an IOU.

Luthor shook his head. "Hard cash only, I make it a rule." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet case. Inside it lay a modest but lovely diamond necklace, easily worth ten thousand dollars. Withdrawing his stack of chips from the pot, he laid the necklace in its place.

Irina's eyes went huge, with wonder and, Bruce suspected, with greed. She immediately called Luthor's bluff (everyone else had folded) triumphantly throwing down her third royal flush of the night. Luthor laughed and tossed his cards face down on the table. "Congratulations. I'd better quit while I can still afford a cab home."

Irina, her face flushed, drew the velvet box toward her and picked up the necklace reverently.

"May I?" Luthor asked. He took the necklace and carefully fastened it around her throat, his fingers lingering at the base of her neck as he bent to speak softly in her ear. She turned her face toward his and smiled coyly. Bruce restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

"The fireworks ought to be starting soon," Selina reminded them as she rose from the table. "Shall we go and watch?"

There was a particularly nice balcony reserved for VIP guests. It overhung the heated outdoor pool, which was filled for decorative purposes despite the freezing weather. As they walked toward the glass doors, Selina suddenly caught Luthor's arm, the one that wasn't wrapped around Irina. "There's Jean Luc," she said, pointing at a slight man in a black tuxedo. "I should speak to him. I'll join you on the balcony."

The rest of the party moved through the glass doors. Bruce braced himself for the winter air, but to his surprise the open balcony was as warm as the interior of the hotel. He heard a gentle rushing sound and, stepping to the waist high rail, stretched out his hand. Jets of hot air shot up in a solid wall all along the railing, to meet the overhanging roof, enclosing the balcony in its own invisible heat shield. _Expensive_, he thought, and wondered if the floor and the railing had currents running through them to keep them warm. Clever though the air idea was, it wouldn't be completely effective on its own.

The rail grew crowded around him. A few steps away he saw Irina fingering her new necklace smugly and glancing at a woman next to her who also wore diamonds around her neck. Below them, the space around the pool was filling with people, although it must have been much colder down there with only the little heat that the pool gave off.

"Ten!" the crowd suddenly shouted as a neon laser number appeared in the sky. "Nine! Eight! Seven!"

Glancing around the balcony, Bruce noticed that Selina had not yet rejoined them.

"Four! Three! Two! One!"

A profusion of gold and red fire burst across the sky, greeted with screams and clapping from the crowd. Through the sparks, it was just possible to read the laser writing which now spelled HAPPY NEW YEAR.

_Expensive_, Bruce thought again, but considering the haul that the casino was no doubt making tonight, it wouldn't matter.

Fresh bursts of color erupted across the sky and down by the pool and off key and no doubt tipsy group started in with _Auld Lang Syne_. Something small and sparkly arced through the air from behind him and began to fall over the railing. Automatically, he reached out and caught it. As his fingers closed around the smooth metal, a heavy force rammed into his shoulders, tipping him neatly over the rail. The sound of screaming was cut off as he hit the water, which, despite the heating mechanism, had developed a thin film of ice.

Bruce hit the bottom of the pool and shot back up, the screams refilling his ears as his head popped up above water. Hands were reaching down to pull him out, and he was immediately surrounded by concerned hotel staff, armed with enormous towels. Above him, the screaming on the balcony continued, suddenly dissolving into distinguishable words with a European accent.

"Help me! I have been robbed!"

* * *

Gordon was sitting in the living room, waiting for Babs to return from her date with Trevor. Admittedly, it was New Year's Eve, and she had permission to be out late, but Gordon's protective sense was turned on increasingly high alert as the hand of the clock eased past one-thirty. _If she's not home in fifteen minutes, I'm calling her cell, _he vowed.

The hands on the clock seemed to move with excruciating slowness. There was nothing good on TV. He stalked uneasily from the living room to the kitchen, looking for a distraction. Gordon was reaching for the handle of the refrigerator when a sheaf of notices pinned to the front by magnets caught his eyes. Pulling them off, he examined the usual start of term notices from Bailey, Barbara's high school. They were all printed on heavy cream colored stationary with the school crest stamped at the top. _Ridiculous_, Gordon thought, wondering how much of his daughter's tuition money went to pay for this stuff. There were two sheets, one a reminder about the date and time of the opening assembly, the other a schedule for the sports program.

_We ought to go to more games this semester_, Gordon told himself, _Jimmy would like that._ He continued to stare at the sheets, a niggling little thought swimming up from the back of his brain. Something about these notices bothered, something he felt he ought to know about them. _Do I have to sign anything? But we paid the whole bill in the fall..._

His reverie was interrupted by the vibration of his pager, and he snatched it off his belt, ridiculously expecting to see Babs' number even though he knew she would have called his cell or the house phone. Sighing at the sight of the all too familiar digits, he grabbed his phone and dialed O'Hara.

"Chief, there's been another of those riddle murders," the captain said as soon as he picked up.

Gordon swore. "Where?"

"North east side. The Old Orchard neighborhood. We've got three bodies."

"I'm on my way," Gordon said grimly. Cutting off the call, he hurried upstairs to dress and then went straight back down to the garage through the kitchen. On second thought, he darted back into the hallway and scribbled a large message on the phone pad. _Babs – Call me when you get in. –Dad_ He propped the note on the stairs where she couldn't miss it and ran out to his car. _And if he doesn't have her home by the time I get through with this, there will be a fourth body for the department to deal with_.

There was no chance the media was staying out of this one. The north east side was one of Gotham's most affluent areas, utterly different from the shabby tenement where the first murder had been committed. Two news crews were there, haunting the yellow tape boundary when Gordon pulled his car to a stop. He ignored the shouted questions and hurried inside to find O'Hara.

He found him in what was apparently the family room. A wide screen TV and comfortable couches took up one half, while a pool table and bar filled the other. The bodies were laid in a neat row in front of the TV: an old man on the far left, a middle-aged somehow familiar woman in the middle, and a golden haired infant closest to Gordon.

"A bullet in the temple each," O'Hara said grimly.

"He didn't torture these?" Gordon asked, turning away from the gruesome sight.

"Not that we can tell."

"Where the riddle?"

O'Hara pointed to the coffee table where a sheet of paper lay surrounded by three framed photographs. Gordon crouched and saw that there was one each of the victims. He looked at the sheet and read the single line.

_What goes on four legs at morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?_

"What's the answer?"

"Man," O'Hara said softly. "We crawl when we're young, walk when we're adults, and use a cane when we're old."

Gordon's eyes flew to the oldest corpse and saw the polish cane resting across its chest. "He chose this family because it fit his riddle?" he asked, repulsed.

"Not quite. We don't think the child belongs to the house. And there are a couple members of the family who aren't here. The woman is Georgia Stern. She's an investigative reporter for that cable news network, GNN 49. The old man is her father-in-law. But she's got a teenaged son and a husband who are nowhere in the house. We're trying to locate them now."

"Georgia Stern," Gordon repeated thoughtfully. That was why the middle victim looked familiar. She had a late night show which he rarely watched because she liked to puff up her facts with a lot of speculation. Doubtless, she made more than a few enemies in her career. "Both in the media business," he muttered, thinking of the first murder.

"Yes," O'Hara agreed. "And there's something else they had in common. Neither of them like the Batman. She did a whole series of shows on him last fall with a very negative slant."

Gordon vaguely remembered that, but the city was periodically gripped with anti-Batman sentiment. It usually died down after a few weeks, punctured when the Bat pulled off something spectacular, and he had assumed Georgia Stern was merely riding the bandwagon to gain some extra viewers. He came out of these speculations to find O'Hara watching him intently. Gordon stared back, and then realization dawned. Glancing around to make certain the forensic specialists were involved with other things, he stepped close and said softly, "Captain, are you suggesting that Batman is knocking off his enemies?"

"No, sir," O'Hara replied promptly, "but I think that other people are going to make the connection. It's better that we do it first."

"You're right," Gordon muttered, just as his cell phone rang. "Excuse me." Stepping outside the room, he flipped it open and was relieved to see Babs' number on the screen. He flipped it open and hit _Talk_. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Dad. I'm just checking in like your note ordered."

Gordon could hear the tolerance practically oozing from her tone. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Did you have a nice time?"

"It was all right. Where are you?"

"Crime scene, triple homicide. It's pretty ugly."

"Tell me about it in the morning?"

"Barbara, you know how your grandmother feels about murder over breakfast."

"After breakfast, then."

"I'll tell you what I can," Gordon sighed.

"Goody. Night, Dad."

"Goodnight, sweetheart." He hung up and returned the phone to his pocket. Babs' interest in his work always unsettled him. A certain pride certainly stirred at the thought of his daughter following him into law enforcement, but a large part of him couldn't help wishing that she was interested in something a little safer like medicine or interior design. _If she would go somewhere besides Gotham. It's not quite as bad, other places._

Gordon walked back into the room just in time to hear a CSI making a pronouncement on the riddle. "Can't tell for sure until we check it, but it looks like the same printer. It's got the bubble on the e."

The news was both good and bad. The printer used was a high quality but standard laser jet. There were probably a thousand of them sold in Gotham every week. On the other hand, if both riddles were printed on the same machine, it meant the killer had established a pattern, which would make him easier to catch. In addition, this particular printer made a tiny flaw on the small e's, so it would be easy to match the riddles to the machine if they could track it down.

Gordon sighed, running a hand through his increasingly gray hair. If this crime scene was anything like the last one, then there wouldn't be any clues to the killer's identity. Whoever the guy was, he was smart and thorough. Gordon turned to O'Hara. "I'm going to head back home. Call me when you find the son or the husband. Or who the kid belongs to."

A low light was burning over the kitchen sink when he came in through the garage. He smiled at Babs' thoughtfulness and switched it off on the way out. As he walked slowly up the stairs, he realized that something was wiggling around in the back of his mind. A tiny fact that his subconscious had registered and was now trying to push to the front. Gordon had dealt with this sort of intuition before, and he knew that the best way to coax it out would be to relax and leave it alone. So he purposefully tried not to think about it as he pulled on his pajamas for the second time that night and began to brush his teeth.

His mouth was full of foam when it hit him. Spitting frantically and dropping the toothbrush into the sink, he ran downstairs to the kitchen, stubbing his toe on the doorjamb. Hopping on one foot and trying not to yell with pain, he snatched the notices from Bailey off the fridge, sending the magnet clattering on the floor.

Fumbling for the overhead light, he at last got it on and bent over the top sheet, the reminder about the beginning of the term. A _the_ caught his eye and he squinted at the paper through his glasses, heart pounding, hoping that weariness wasn't throwing off his sight too much. And there it was: A small bubble right before the outside tip of the e.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Huzzah! Selina is back! Review, O Dearest Readers, and let me know how you feel about it!


	4. January: Theme

**A/N**I suppose I should begin by saying that I'm sorry about the awful delay in updating, but one should only apologize for things one doesn't intend to do again, and I unfortunately can't promise that it won't happen again. However, one hopeful factor is that I've finished my original novel, although it needs some editing, so that project won't be consuming my creative energy. School is whacked – the sheer amount of grading I have to do this semester is exhausting – but I'll be ok. I hope! One thing about having to wait this long before I summon up the energy for a chapter – it really makes me think twice about what's really important to the story. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** This chapter was written under the duress of a royal order from my ex-roommate. Therefore, just as soldiers who fight at the command of their king are not responsible for the justness of the war, so am I not responsible for the quality of this chapter.

**Chapter 4**

_School days, school days; dear old golden rule days.  
Readin' and 'ritin' and 'rithmetic; taught to the tune of a hick'ry stick._

_- Will D. Cobb_

Bruce slumped over his cup of coffee in the kitchen, trying to wake up. It was abominably early – only six-thirty – which meant he had gotten a whole two and a half hours of sleep, but he wasn't about to miss any of the events of this morning, Richard's very first day of high school.

Bruce couldn't quite remember how they had arrived in their current situation, but he was fairly convinced that he had been manipulated by both his ward and his butler. When Gordon had revealed that the riddle murders had definite ties to Bailey Academy, Richard had pounced on the idea of going undercover so that they could have a spy in place at the school. Although it would not actually be undercover, since he would attend under his own identity, as Bruce pointed out. He declared that he was not about to let Richard, as Richard, anywhere near the homicidal riddler. Richard argued that this type of hiding in plain sight was what made up Bruce's entire social life. Bruce, not willing to open the subject for debate, had returned a flat "No," and three days later found himself on the phone with the chairman of the school board, trying to wangle a mid-year spot for his ward in the city's most prestigious prep school.

Alfred, whose eyes in the back of his head seemed to grow sharper each year, turned away from the stove where he was scrambling eggs and smiled in the direction of the doorway. "Good morning, Master Richard."

"Hey, Alfred. Bruce, man, you awake there?" Richard asked, sliding onto the counter stool next to his guardian.

"Urgh," Bruce assented, casting a casual sideways glance at his ward. Then he did a double take, not certain his sleepy eyes had seen correctly the first time.

Richard smirked. "So, what do you think?"

Apparently Tanya, size 6, wielded more influence than Bruce had realized. Richard's nondescript brown hair was now inky black. The dark locks fell across his brow in beautiful disarray, and his fair skin, already at its palest in the dead of winter, appeared almost chalky, while his finely drawn bone structure was thrown into prominence. He could have modeled for a portrait of Lord Byron.

Bruce groaned and buried his face in his hands. "You look like the living dead."

"That's good," Richard said calmly, accepting his plate of eggs. "Vampires are very hot right now."

"I've created a monster," Bruce mumbled.

"Permit me to point out, sir, that Frankenstein's creation was not a vampire," Alfred volunteered in his most helpful tones.

Bruce dropped his hands in order to glare. "Why are you always on his side?"

"I'm not on anybody's side, sir, I was merely putting in a word for literary accuracy."

Richard laughed, spraying a mouthful of eggs across the counter, and had to hurry upstairs to change his tie before they could leave.

"Can I drive?" he asked Bruce as they pulled on their coats in the hallway before heading out to the car.

"No," growled Bruce, throwing open the front door. The Aston Martin was at the bottom of the stairs, purring and toasty warm inside, thanks to Frank, the early morning car guy.

Richard, who had really not stopped smirking since he had first appeared that morning, taunted, "Somebody was out too late last night."

Goaded beyond endurance, Bruce grabbed his ward by the collar and applied a rough hand to his head.

"Not the hair!" Rick yelled, twisting away and scowling fiercely into the hall mirror as he tried to repair the damage.

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind not letting in an enormous draft," Alfred put in, looking pointedly at the front door. "Do enjoy your day, Master Richard."

"Thanks Alfred!" His cheerfulness restored with his hair, Richard bounced out the door, followed by Bruce.

They pulled up in front of Bailey academy. The imposingly ornate brick building rose gracefully up from smooth, snow encrusted lawns. "You're sure you don't want me to come in with you?" Bruce asked, a little wistfully.

Richard rolled his eyes. "I'm sure."

"Remember the rules."

"Bruce, you've read me the list about a hundred times. I think I've got your rules down."

"Well, don't break any of the school rules either."

"If I do, I won't get caught." Rick grinned cheekily and swung himself out of the car. "See you tonight!"

"Right," Bruce sighed as he watched his ward head up the neatly shoveled walk.

Putting the car in gear he drove home much more slowly than was Bruce Wayne's usual habit. Although he was still half convinced that sending Richard to school was a bad idea, there were plenty of positives weighing in on the other side. Aside from the educational benefits, there was the reluctant agreement he had managed to wangle with his ward that said Richard could go to school only in exchange for giving up most of his night work. In addition, he had to keep his grades up, avoid irrevocably scarring his school record, and promise that if he did stumble across any leads to the murderer, he would contact Bruce before taking any action on his own. But Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't be enough to keep Richard safe. _Maybe all parents feel like this on their kid's first day of high school_, he reflected as he parked in the driveway, turned the keys over to Frank, and went in search of Alfred.

* * *

Richard pushed open the door whose frosted glass pane read OFFICE. A trim, gray haired woman looked up at him from behind the secretary's desk. "Hi, I'm new," he said cheerfully.

"You must be Richard." She picked up a manila envelope and offered it to him. "You'll find everything you need in here. Your books are waiting for you in your locker. Also, we've assigned a student guide to help you find your way around today." The secretary, whose desk plate read Mrs. Chambers, beckoned over a short, round faced boy who had been standing patiently off to the side. "Richard, this is Haliburton Gratchison IV. Why don't you two head along now and find Richard's locker. And Richard dear," she gave him a stern look over the tops of her spectacles, "you'll want to tuck in those shirt tails."

"Do I have to?" Richard asked his guide as soon as they left the office.

"Unless you want demerits," the chubby boy affirmed. "You'd better straighten up that tie, too, before a hall monitor sees you. And by the way, it's just Hal."

"It's just Rick," Richard responded, shifting his book bag so that he could tuck his shirt into the top of his navy uniform pants. He made a face as he fastened the top button of his collar and created a proper choking hazard out of his blue and scarlet striped tie (Bailey colors).

They stopped at a bank of lockers and Richard fished his assignment out of the envelope. Glancing at the combination, he spun the lock, and it clicked open without trouble. As Mrs. Chambers had promised, there was a neat stack of glossy textbooks inside. Rick hung his coat on the hook and looked at his schedule. "What do I need for homeroom, English, and history?"

"Nothing for homeroom, but we don't even have it today because of opening assembly. For the other two you need the poetry book and …"

"And the history book," Rick finished, pulling the two volumes out of his stack. He slammed the locker and unzipped his bag to toss them inside. He looked up to say something to Hal … and then it happened.

She came down the hall toward him, gliding on long, gorgeous legs displayed to full advantage beneath her pleated school skirt. She was almost past him before he thought to look at the rest of her, and he got only a brief, shattering impression of blazing green eyes in an ivory face. And then she was gone and Rick was left with oddly slippery knees and a dull buzzing in his brain.

"She's out of your league, man." Hal's voice seemed to come from a long ways away, but when Richard finally turned his head, the other boy was standing right next to him, looking sympathetic. "That's Barbara Gordon," he added, as though it were an explanation in and of itself.

"Barbara," Richard repeated, dazed. The goddess's name was _Barbara …_ Something clicked into place. "_Gordon_?" he demanded. "As in …"

"Yeah, as in the police chief's daughter." Richard couldn't help a grimace of dismay, but fortunately, Hal seemed to think this was perfectly normal. "And if that wasn't enough," he continued, as they finally began to walk down the hallway, "she's a senior _and_ she's got a steady boyfriend."

"Strike three," Rick muttered, his knees still wobbly. He was so preoccupied that he nearly ran into a man in a blue coverall who was hurrying down the hall with a spray bottle and roll of paper towels. "Sorry!" he apologized, just barely jumping out of the way.

"Sorry, Mr. Harris," Hal added.

"No worries, boys, no worries." The janitor was a little portly, balding, and from the way he was peering at Richard, nearsighted. "New one, are you?" he asked.

"That would be me," Richard affirmed.

"You'll be all right," the old man assured him, kindly if a little irrelevantly. "I have to go and polish the trophy cases before Mr. Sturgeon walks by. Mrs. Simmons had her little boy in this morning, and the fingerprints!" He shook his head, clucking a little, and hurried away.

Richard looked questioningly at Hal, who tapped his temple significantly. "I figure there's a few synapses firing blanks up there. But he's not a bad guy, Mr. Harris. He knows more than anyone else about what's going on in this school, and if he likes you, he'll help you out."

Rick finally snapped out of his Barbara induced haze and remembered why he was at Bailey in the first place. Someone who knew everything that was going on would definitely be a useful acquaintance. "What kind of people does he like?"

"People who don't make messes."

They joined an increasingly large stream of students that was flowing into a set of double doors with Maxwell Auditorium engraved above them. "We have seats together," Hal explained as they entered the well lit hall and he led the way to the appropriate row. "That's why I got to be your guide. You'll find that Bailey has a small alphabet fetish. They organize us first by grade and then by last name."

They were forced to pause in the narrow aisle as the flow around them came to a standstill. Craning his neck, Rick saw that a kid had come to a dead stop for no apparent reason. "Hey move!" an irritated voice somewhere ahead of them snapped, followed by a shushing sound. At last the kid moved ahead, and the line started up again.

"That was David Stern," Hal whispered.

* * *

Bruce stared down at the file, going over the evidence for what felt like the two hundred and fiftieth time. Georgia Stern, her elderly father, and her neighbor's infant daughter had been slaughtered in the Stern's basement while her husband and son were at a party halfway across town. According to the husband, Georgia had come down with a migraine that afternoon, which is why she hadn't gone to the party, but the son, David, had confided that he thought his mother was faking the headache because she had just had a big fight with her mother-in-law, the party's hostess. The baby had been kidnapped from her second floor nursery while the babysitter was on the phone with her boyfriend downstairs.

_The baby_ … Bruce closed his eyes and wondered what malicious whim of fate had decreed that Commissioner Loeb's daughter and her family should live next door to the killer's target and that it should be his granddaughter that was chosen to fill out the rank of corpses. Loeb was screaming for action, and Gordon, already on the commissioner's black list, was taking the worst of the scorching.

And the worst of it was, the killer had _told_ them who he was going to murder next. The false tooth that had been slipped in among those pulled from the first victim's mouth belonged to Georgia Stern. In a cosmetic surgery a year ago, she had had implants installed for two of her lower teeth and had been given a "flipper" to fill in the gaps while she waited for her gums to heal before the permanent crown was installed. She had later donated the plastic ridge with its two false teeth to her son for his health class project (after first swearing him to secrecy about where he had gotten it) and he had lost it at school – at Bailey. Now one of those false teeth had reappeared, cut from its plastic base so that it could rest inconspicuously in the circle.

If the murderer had warned them about his future plans the first time, then he would have done it the second time as well. Gordon and his team had been going over the evidence with a fine tooth comb, trying to figure out which piece of the carefully arranged tableau was pointing to the next victim. Their best guess lay with the cane that had been placed in the old man's hands, but which had turned out not actually to belong to him, so it fit the criteria the murderer had set up the first time. Like the tooth, it was passed off as a natural, not an intrusive element in the scene. And like the tooth, its true owner would be difficult to trace. All fingerprints had been carefully wiped away, and its plain, durable make probably had fifty thousand twins scattered across the city.

Bruce was used to people who killed – for power, for money, for pleasure. But this – this use of death like a sketch pencil, to fill in a little picture for no other apparent purpose than to amuse – it reminded him of a caption blazoned on the outside of a magician's kit he had bought for Richard several Christmases ago: _Astound your friends! Confound your enemies!_

It did more than turn his stomach. It frightened him. And now Richard was in the middle of it, watching, listening, and perhaps being watched and listened to in return.

* * *

Richard and Hal ate lunch with a group of Hal's friends, including his rather clingy girlfriend April, and then they compared schedules again. Although their morning classes had been identical, their paths were now diverging. April and Hal were going to geometry, and Richard had something called "Mathematical Elementals." April giggled when she heard the name of the class.

"You have Animal Math?"

Rick looked at her, confused. "What?"

"It's just a dumb name somebody came up with for that class," Hal put in hastily. "Don't worry about it. So you understand how to find the classroom?"

"Yeah, just around the corner there." Rick shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hey, thanks for letting me hang with you this morning."

Hal shrugged. "No problem." Then he added frankly, "I'm getting extra credit in my junior leadership class for this. But you can sit with us again tomorrow if you like."

"Thanks," Richard drawled, not entirely sure how to take that remark. "I'll see you guys later." He walked down the hall, unobtrusively observing the faces of everyone he passed. Bailey wasn't a huge school, and he'd already looked at photographs of students as well as faculty and staff. It was important that he figure out as soon as possible how networks in this place worked. He wouldn't be able to spot what was out of place unless he knew how things were supposed to work.

Actually, his first day had been a little overwhelming, he admitted to himself as he slipped into the desk with _Grayson_ typed next to the slot for fifth period. Although he watched people all the time, he did it as a detached observer – it was much more complicated to have to worry about his own self presentation at the same time.

As if to illustrate his thoughts, the girl in the desk next to his was peering sideways, looking afraid that he might catch her looking at him. Richard offered a smile, and she immediately bent her head so that a dark curtain of hair concealed her face.

"All right, people, take out your books and open up to section five point two." The math instructor was petite, with carroty hair that was nothing like Barbara Gordon's glorious red head. Seeing her had been far and away the best part of the day, and Richard absently slipped into a daydream were she actually looked at him and said _Hi_, when a sharp voice called him back to the classroom. "Mr. Grayson? I assumed you are Mr. Grayson?"

"Uh, yeah," Richard muttered, squirming a little beneath the teacher's critical stare.

"I realize this is your first day, but would it be too much strain to join the class in turning to five point two?"

"Sorry," he muttered, hastily flipping through the book.

"Now that we're all on the same page," the teacher, Ms. Simpkins he remembered from his schedule, continued, "Let's see if you remember anything you learned before the winter break. Take ten minutes to do the first ten problems."

There was a collective groan, and Rick examined section five point two, curious to see what the cause of it was. _Convert each fraction to a decimal_, the single line of instructions read, and below it were numbered rows of fractions. Rick stared at the page in confusion, and then raised his hand. He could have sworn Ms. Simpkins sighed before she called his name. "Yes, Richard?"

"I don't think I understand what we're supposed to do," he confessed, feeling embarrassed. The homework assigned in his other classes was already daunting, and he had been hoping to have an easy time in the math class. When Bruce had enrolled him, he had explained that Rick would be working with a private math tutor, but the principal had informed them that while all students were, of course, encouraged to seek tutoring outside school whenever necessary, everyone was required to be enrolled in an actual class. Rick had been resigned to having a class that might, perhaps, deal with concepts he had already mastered with Alex, but he had been pleasantly surprised by the "Mathematical Elementals" which he assumed would be a class in programming. Although he had been messing around with his own programs for some time, any class that allowed creative work time would be a plus.

"Convert the fractions into decimals. If you are unfamiliar with the procedure, there are directions at the beginning of the chapter."

"So … you just want us to convert each fraction into a decimal," Richard repeated cautiously. "That's it?"

He actually heard the sigh this time. "Yes, Mr. Grayson."

"But … why?" he asked, feeling more confused than ever.

"Why? Because I told you to," Ms. Simpkins snapped.

"But … isn't it a little … pointless?" he blurted out, and then heard Alfred's voice whispering, _Tactless, Master Richard._

Ms. Simpkins apparently agreed with the imaginary voice because her eyes went narrow and hard, while her mouth drew into a wrinkled little bud, as though it had been tightened with a drawstring. "Until you acquire a teaching license of your own, Mr. Grayson, I suggest that you allow _me_ to decide what is necessary for this class."

There were a few titters from the back of the room. Richard slunk down in his seat and wished he could simply sink through the floor. This was the first class in which he had asked any questions, and he definitely regretted the experiment. Still cringing inwardly, he pulled out his notebook and opened it to a clean page.

There was a little rustle next to him, and Rick turned to see the girl holding out a piece of paper covered in squares. "Would you like some graph paper?" she whispered through her curtain of hair.

"Thanks," he whispered back, taking it. Still feeling as though he must be missing part of the directions, he glanced surreptitiously at her own sheet. She had written her name, Carmen Leo, in careful cursive at the top of the page, and she had copied down the first fraction beside a number one, but that was as far as she had gotten. She was now chewing on the end of her pencil, her head bent over the page, and her hair prevented him from reading her expression.

"Richard Grayson!" Ms. Simpkins' furious voice snapped through the quiet air of the classroom. "If you cannot pay attention to your own work, then you will have to come up here and sit with me." She pointed at a student desk that sat next to her own large one.

With horror, Rick realized that she must have seen him looking at Carmen's paper and thought he was trying to copy the answers. It would be no good trying to explain, so he quietly gathered up his things and moved into the desk at the front of the room. The eyes of every student in the room seemed to be pinned on him, and he heard another snicker go around as a hot flush crept up his face. He wanted, more than anything, to be shielded in his cape and cowl, crouched invisibly in the corner of some dark rooftop. Scowling down at his paper, Richard copied down the assigned fractions and their equivalent decimals as quickly as he could. If he was doing it wrong, he would find out soon enough.

But he wasn't doing it wrong. And as the lesson progressed from converting fractions to adding and subtracting them, he snuck a glance through the rest of his book. It had nothing at all to do with the elemental functions necessary to programming and everything to do with the elements – basic principles – of math. Feeling generally stupid for having made such a mistake, Rick kept his head down and his mouth shut for the rest of the class. At the end of the period, he meekly wrote down his homework assignment and escaped out the door.

His next class, something called Life Skills, was only a few doors down the hall, so he was the first one into his seat. Closing his eyes and deliberately controlling his breathing, he focused on dispelling his frustration and embarrassment. After all, it was his first day back at school in seven years. It was only to be expected that he get confused in a class or two. But it was nothing he wouldn't figure out, and it was definitely nothing he needed to worry Bruce about. Bruce was already skittish about this whole idea. No, he, Richard, would go to the stupid math class like he was supposed to and do everything they told him to. And he would remember why he was here in the first place, so that as soon as he got his bearings in this bizarre new environment, he would find the clues that would lead them to the killer. Resolved, calm, and focused, Richard opened his eyes and found Barbara Gordon in the seat next to him.

* * *

The secretary's voice buzzed gently over the intercom. "Mr. Wayne?"

"Yes, Jessica?" he asked absently, flipping through a stack of reports and wondering whether he ought to be at the school to pick up Richard a few minutes early.

"Selina Kyle is here to see you."

Bruce's eyebrows flew up in surprise. He hadn't seen Selina since the night of the ill-fated New Year's party, when the mysterious thief had somehow swooped across the casino balcony, ripping diamond necklaces right off the necks of Irina Couture and the woman next to her, pushing Bruce into the pool, and shoving Selina Kyle down a flight of stairs en route to the exit. It wasn't until later that the casino discovered its house safe had also been robbed, and nearly a million dollars worth of hotel guests' jewelry was gone. But spectacular as the robbery was, it had been pushed by the riddle murder onto page two, both of the papers and Bruce's list of priorities.

Jessica was whining into the intercom. "I _told_ her she needed an appointment to see you, but she insisted …"

"It's all right, send her in."

There was a short pause, and then Jessica said sulkily, "Right away Mr. Wayne." Bruce was aware this secretary to a playboy job had been a disappointment to her. Jessica had originally envisioned seeing much more of him as playboy and much less of herself as secretary.

He unobtrusively slid his stack of reports into a desk drawer as the door to his Wayne Tower office opened and Selina entered. From the sardonic lift at the corner of her mouth, he thought she had caught his move with the papers, but he kept his own expression innocent. "Selina, how are you?" he asked, standing and moving around the desk to greet her.

"I'm fine. Thank you for the get well flowers."

"You're welcome. I'm just glad you didn't break anything tumbling down those stairs."

"Bruises only," she assured him, pushing back the sleeve of her blazer to show him a purple splotch that had begun to go green around the edges.

"Did you actually see the burglar?" he asked curiously.

She shook her head. "No, I was shoved sharply from behind. I didn't know a thing until I was falling."

He nodded. "Same here. Good thing I know how to swim."

"Speaking of which, I brought you something." Reaching into her black leather shoulder bag, she produced a flat package wrapped in tissue paper and silver ribbon.

"Thanks. Should I open it now?" Bruce asked, accepting it.

"Please do."

He tore off the paper and found himself holding bright yellow inflatable life vest. "Wow, thanks."

"You're welcome. I got the inflatable kind so that it could fit under your tuxedo. Just in case this ever happens again."

Grinning, Bruce straightened out the rubber so that he could read the small print at the bottom. "Property of LexCorp."

Selina's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I stole it from Lex's jet."

Bruce burst into laughter. "What happens to Lex if his jet goes down in the Atlantic next trip?"

"I'll spend the rest of my life saying, 'Out damned spot!'"

Bruce laughed before he could catch himself. What was it about this woman that made him forget who he was?

Selina pounced on his slip. "So, even the notoriously illiterate Bruce Wayne has read Macbeth."

"I have the condensed version," he explained, trying to recover. "Great classics in five minutes or less."

"What a relief. I thought Gotham's most notorious playboy was about to turn out to have feet of gold."

Bruce was ready for that one and gave a blank, polite smile, but he wasn't certain she fell for it. However, Selina didn't pursued the topic but instead asked, "Would you like to go and grab some coffee? I have an hour to kill before my meeting."

Bruce glanced at his watch. "I can't," he said, with genuine regret. "I have to pick my kid up from school. It's his first day."

"Away from the careful eyes of his tutor, into the big bad world of the prep school," she said mockingly, but without malice. "It was all over _Gotham Gossip_ this morning."

"Yeah," sighed Bruce. "And they're probably waiting to pounce on him the moment he comes out the door, so I'd better get going. Can I take a rain check on the coffee?"

Selina smiled tauntingly. "We'll see. It doesn't rain very often where I come from."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Thanks so much for bearing with me during this tough semester! Your reviews are enormously encouraging, and are the main reason you have this chapter right now.


	5. January: Do Re Mi

**A/N** Surprise! And no one is more surprised than me. Everybody owes WhitStar a huge thank you. She wrote me a fabulous review, and when I came home from my Thanksgiving trip today and found it, I felt so inspired that I started typing and didn't stop until I had a chapter! It's a little shorter, but it's a whole lot better than nothing. So enjoy! I won't get review responses out for the last chapter because I have so much grading and academic writing that I have to do in the next three weeks, but please know that I read and appreciated each one. And please, please review this chapter! I promise you all another one as soon as I'm on break!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

Chapter 5

_**Beatrice**__: But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?  
__**Benedick**__: Suffer love! A good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will._

_-__Much Ado About Nothing_

Richard's calm deserted him as his heart started pounding an uneven tattoo, and the stiffening left his bones so that he nearly slithered right out of his chair. Barbara's expression was bored as she sat flicking her pencil between her fingers. She had beautiful fingers, long and slender but strong as they deftly maneuvered the pencil end over end.

The smack of books being dropped to the desk on his other side abruptly brought Richard out of his haze, and he realized that he had been staring at Barbara Gordon's with his mouth open for heaven knew how long. Snapping his mouth shut, he forced his reluctant gaze back to his own desk, although he couldn't risk peeking about once every five seconds to make certain she was still there. The person on his right was still slamming books around, and a particularly loud snap of a cover finally caused Richard to glance over. When the petite blond saw him looking, she tossed her curls and winked. The effort made no impression on Richard, who merely looked at her blankly, and then sneaked another glance at Barbara. A particularly violent sounding slam came from the blond's desk, but before she could take any more definite course of action, a man with short, iron gray hair and a brisk stride came through the door.

"Seats!" he barked, and the clusters of gossiping students broke up as everyone dove for their desks.

Mr. Davis's method of taking attendance was as laconic as his calling the room to attention had been. "Applebaum! Baker! Brabon!" He fired the last names off like bullets, and each student shot back an equally snappy, "Here!" When he got to Gordon, Richard suddenly realized that the reason he was sitting next to beauty incarnate was because of his never-before-so-glorious last name. He was so busy blessing Bailey's alphabet fetish that he almost missed his own name, and stumbled out an "Uh, here," half a beat too late. The blond on his right giggled before calling out her own "Here" in response to "Irving!" but Barbara didn't glance his way, much to Richard's relief. He wanted her to look at him. He _definitely_ wanted her to look at him, but not when his ears were burning with embarrassment.

Mr. Davis handed out the syllabi, a single sheet full of concise bullet points, and then stood in the front of the room, his back rigidly straight, hands clasped behind his back. "Class," he began, although Richard got the impression he would much rather have said "Troops." "Welcome to Life Skills. During this hour, you will be acquiring the knowledge and skills necessary to becoming a successful and independent adult. By the end of the semester each and every one of you will be able to balance a check book, create a realistic budget, find an apartment, finance car payments, start a stock portfolio, and understand the complexities of caring for an infant. It is my firm belief that the best way to learn how to do these things is practical application. Class work will be a series of projects mimicking real life situations, so that by the end of the semester you will have created a mock adult identity for yourself."

"Do we get mock adult IDs, too?" a voice from the back of the room asked.

Mr. Davis glared. "That might be funny, Mr. Zorello, if exactly the same comment hadn't been made every semester I've taught this class. If you have nothing to contribute to the general welfare, kindly shut up."

"Shutting up," the cheerful voice promised, and Mr. Davis shot him a cold glare before continuing.

"The due dates for each project are marked on the syllabus. You will be assigned a partner with whom you will work for the entire semester, and you will be expected to collaborate extensively outside of class. And before you start making eye contact with your best friend across the room, let me tell you that all partners will be assigned alphabetically."

A collective groan rose from the students, but Richard's heart leapt. Holding his breath, he quickly tried to figure out the number of students sitting before Barbara. Was it odd or even? He counted, and then counted again. It was even. But he didn't quite let himself believe it until Mr. Davis read out, "Elliott and Fisher. Gordon and Grayson." Rick couldn't stop the grin that stretched his mouth until it hurt. He turned toward Barbara and found that she was finally looking at him. She watched him expressionlessly, her lids drooping until her eyes were only a brilliant slit of green. Then she moved her gaze back to the front, the pencil twirling quicker than ever between her fingers.

It wasn't the most promising beginning, but Richard was flying too high to be daunted. His dazzled eyes saw before him endless study sessions in the glorious presence of those eyes and fingers and legs …

The last partners (Yancy and Zorello) assigned, Mr. Davis picked up his textbook, but before he could announce a page number, Irving's (Amanda's) hand was waving wildly in the air. "Mr. Davis!"

"What is it, Irving?" he snapped.

"Don't you think Grayson and I should work together since we're the only sophomores in the class? I mean, it's not really fair to saddle the seniors with underclassmen partners."

Richard's head snapped around and he gaped at her in horror. What was she doing? Why was she smiling at him as though this were the best idea in the world?

Mr. Davis tucked his book beneath his arm with as much precision as if it had been a rifle. "I don't hear them complaining. Gordon, do you have a problem with your partner?"

Richard held his breath.

Barbara glanced up. "No problem," she said evenly, before returning her attention to her pencil. Rick exhaled until he felt as deflated as a popped balloon. Her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her, cool and smooth and low.

"Michelin? Any problem?" Mr. Davis asked Amanda's partner.

She shrugged. "Whatever."

"But …"

Mr. Davis slammed shut the book he had begun to open with a crack that made half the class jump. "Miss Irving, unless you have something to contribute to the general welfare, kindly shut up."

Amanda subsided into sulky silence, and Mr. Davis spent the rest of class lecturing on the rather tedious introduction to the textbook. When the bell rang, Rick took his time putting his book back into his bag, watching Barbara out of the corner of his eye. Should he speak? They should at least acknowledge their new academic relationship, shouldn't they?

Barbara stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. _Now or never_, Rick thought, bent over his own bag, but before he could open his mouth the low tone said, "Grayson."

Richard straightened up so fast he was in danger of whiplash. "Hey partner. Rick comes before the Grayson." He hoped that was cool and not stupid and that he wasn't smiling too widely.

She wasn't giving him a smile of any width in return, and her eyes were like green ice as she said, "I have a four point, and I plan on getting a full ride to the college of my choice. You will not screw that up." Turning on her heel, she walked away.

"No problem," Richard said under his breath, simultaneously vowing to be the best partner ever and wishing she had given him just the slightest hint that she didn't regard him as lower than gum stuck to her shoe.

"Hey, Rick," a breathy voice said next to his ear, and he turned in annoyance to find Amanda Irving staring at him through soulful blue eyes. "I can't believe Mr. Davis is so pokey," she complained. "I know we would have been perfect partners."

"He's the teacher," Rick said briefly, standing and swinging his bag to his shoulder.

"I know, but he's so _unreasonable_. What's your next class? Do you need help finding it? Maybe we're in the same one."

"It's just gym, and I know where it is. Thanks," he added insincerely. Whatever feeling he had toward Amanda Irving was the opposite of gratitude.

Her full lips pouted. "Too bad. We have history together, did you see me? There's two H's between us. I tried to talk to you, but you left too quickly with _Haliburton_. He is the school's biggest nerd, and that's saying something because Bailey has a _lot_ of nerds." She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I'd better go so I can change for gym," Rick hastily inserted before she could launch into another sentence. "I'll see you in history." He shot out of the classroom, forcing Amanda to call her goodbye at his retreating back.

The gym uniform was a set of basketball shorts and a tank-style t-shirt in the same blue and scarlet as his tie. Richard was tying his sneakers in the locker room when Hal plunked down on the bench beside him, looking decidedly out of place in his athletic wear. "How were your classes?" he asked cheerfully, fastening a security strap to his glasses.

"Fine," Rick answered, affecting a casual tone. "Guess who my Life Skills partner is?"

Hal looked blank until Richard's grin escaped his control. Astonishment covered the other boy's face. "Not the one and only daughter of our esteemed police chief?"

"You got it." Rick stood and bounced on his toes, testing out his new tennis shoes. "Alphabetically, we're a match."

"Sweet!" Hal offered his palm, and Rick slapped him a high five. "Uh oh." Hal's grin faded and he whispered, "Don't look now, but here comes the reason it doesn't matter if you're her partner for every class."

Ignoring the hissed instruction, Richard looked across the room where a guy had just pushed through the door. He was tall, at least six feet, and a wave of tawny hair tumbled over his forehead, emphasizing his chiseled features, slightly tan despite the deep winter. He walked with a casual arrogance, as though he owned the ground he stepped on, and even before he pulled off his undershirt to change into the uniform, it was obvious that he was serious about working out.

Hal was moaning. "I can't believe we have to share the gym with the seniors _again_."

"Who is he?" Rick asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.

"Trevor Wren, otherwise known as The Tren, The Train, the Unstoppable Force, and Barbara Gordon's longtime boyfriend."

"How longtime?" Richard muttered, an unfamiliar sickness twisting his stomach.

"Two years."

The sick knot evolved into a surge of unexpected fury. _I can take you, pretty boy. Give me one chance and I'll kick your ass so far your mama will put missing notices on milk cartons._

"Hey, Rick," Hal whispered nervously, tugging on his friend's jersey. "Stop looking like you want to kill him, would you? That guy could eat you for lunch and still have room for dessert."

Rick opened his mouth for a sharp correction, when Bruce's voice echoed in his head, _No showing off …_ "In gym or anywhere else," Richard finished out loud, his stomach undergoing another abrupt transformation into a lump of misery.

"That's right," Hal agreed, misinterpreting the half statement as a sign of good sense. "He'll beat you in gym, and he'll beat you everywhere else too, if he even suspects you're going within two feet of Barbara thinking what you're thinking. He's insanely protective – not that she ever looks at anyone else anyway."

Rick heard only half of this informative speech. He was too busy cursing the fact that he was about to enter the gym and let Trevor Wren show him up in everything.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been. There were stations set up around the four court gym – rope, vaulting horse, chin-up bar, tumbling mats – and the sophomore and seniors were split into two groups each and rotated activities, so that only group members became familiar with any one person's overall performance. An assistant coach stood by each station, recording results, while the head coach, Bryant, strode from group to group, offering liberal criticism.

"I don't know why they think I might be better at climbing now than I was at the end of last semester," Hal grumbled as they stood in their alphabetical line, waiting for their turn on the rope. "Like I didn't have better things to do over break."

The boy in front of him touched the knot at the top and slid back down. The assistant coach nodded approvingly, and Hal trudged out and wearily wrapped his hands around the rope, screwing his face up, he managed four arm lengths before his grip gave out and he landed hard on the floor. The assistant coach looked resigned. "Gratchison, two meters," he muttered, scribbling on his clipboard. "Next."

Richard took hold of the rope uncertainly. Not showing off didn't mean he had screw everything up, did it? He slowly pulled himself up, trying to make it look as though he were exerting a supreme effort to achieve his inching progress. Finally at the top, he rested his hands on the knot and gazed around the gym, involuntarily seeking out The Tren. _Stupid nickname_, he thought contemptuously, as his eyes lighted on a tall, muscular figure, poised at the head of a line. Trevor sprinted forward, hit the springboard with a thud that echoed around the gym, and executed a perfect handstand over the horse. _Show off, creepy little …_

"Grayson! Have you gone to sleep or are you scared of heights?" a voice bellowed from below. "Get your butt down, now!"

Sending a last, venomous glare in The Tren's direction, Rick scrambled awkwardly down the rope and meekly accepted Coach Bryant's very loud reminder that this was not a ladies' tea society.

Showered and back in his uniform, Richard trudged toward his locker, trying to remember the last time he had felt so exhausted. Tracking criminals was nothing compared to going to school, he decided, shrugging into his coat and slamming his locker shut. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on the library sofa and take a nap, after one of Alfred's sandwiches (the cafeteria lunch had been less than satisfactory).

"Rick, our lockers are on the same hall," a voice squealed, and Amanda Irving was suddenly standing so close that her bag brushed against his arm.

"Small school," he said unenthusiastically, starting for the front exit.

"How was gym? I bet you did great."

"So so, I guess," Rick muttered, wondering why she would not leave him alone.

Amanda lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Tell me, what's it like living with Bruce Wayne?"

"What do you mean?" he demanded, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone.

"Oh you know. He's always doing something notorious. And he dates all those models. Do they ever try to flirt with you?"

"No," Rick gritted, thrusting open the door to let a welcome blast of cold air hit his face.

"Well that's good. It gives the normal girls at this school a …" A barrage of flashes buried the end of Amanda's comment. She shrieked and clutched Rick's arm.

_Great, just great_, Rick thought bitterly as a host of reporters hurled questions at him. "How'd you like your first day of school, Richard?" "I like the new look, Richard." "Hey, Richard, who's your pretty friend?" Amanda was giggling and Rick was ready to strangle the nearest photographer with his own camera strap, when the loud blast of a horn signaled the presence of the Aston Martin at the curb.

"That's my ride!" he shouted, shook free of Amanda's arm, and bolted for the street, bulldozing through three grinning reporters. He dove into the car, and Bruce peeled away from the curb before the door latch had even clicked.

Rick fastened his seatbelt and leaned against the headrest with a groan. "Are they going to do that every day?"

"They'll get bored after a couple of days."

"Super," Rick muttered.

Bruce cast him a sideways glance. "How was school?"

"It was all right, I guess."

"Any problems?"

Richard thought about Barbara and The Tren, Silly Amanda, and the accusation of cheating in math class and found that he didn't know how to explain any of it. "No," he said quietly. "No problems."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Thanks for reading! Please review!


	6. January: Canon

**A/N** A late Merry Christmas to all! I wanted to have this done for yesterday, but I've had TWO colds since the beginning of break, in addition to tons of family stuff (which is good but doesn't leave a plethora of time and energy for fanfic). Enormous thank you's to all reviewers!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

Chapter 6  
_Conversation should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing.  
- Oscar Wilde_

"How was your first day back at dear old Bailey?" Trevor asked as he awakened the computers in the place he and Barbara called their workroom. Trevor inhabited the entire third floor of the Wren house, which ensured that they had both space and privacy.

Barbara shrugged. "Mind numbingly boring, as always. There is no bigger waste of time than high school."

It was a comment she had made before, and Trevor only nodded as he started typing in passwords. "Who's your Life Skills partner?"

Barbara sighed. "A sophomore, can you believe it? Some new kid named Grayson."

"Grayson," Trevor repeated thoughtfully. "Isn't that the kid who lives with Bruce Wayne? I heard Wayne pulled a bunch of strings to get him in, in the middle of the year."

Barbara nodded. "That's the one. Lucky me. The ward of the biggest moron in town is my partner for the entire semester."

"Is he going to be problem?" Trevor asked, shooting her a sideways glance.

Barbara laughed. "No! I can handle a sophomore." She settled in front of her screen and stuck one of the fresh snickerdoodles Magdalena, the Wrens' housekeeper, had provided. "Maggie makes the best cookies," she mumbled through a full mouth. "I hope you keep her."

"Whatever you command, my lady," Trevor replied, only half jokingly. The Wrens' house staff had a turnover rate of about one year, which was the length of time it took Trevor to get bored with the help. But the last time he had persuaded his father into a collective rehiring decision, Barbara had been seriously upset. She had informed him a very cold, very angry tone that she could not work with someone who messed with people's lives because he was bored, and Trevor had to do a considerable amount of groveling to restore the status quo. Trevor despised groveling, even to Barbara for whom he would do nearly anything if it would earn him approbation. He had taken special pains with the new help, so that year had come and gone without remark, but he tucked the memory of his humiliation away as an account he might one day settle.

Since the beginning of their partnership, Trevor and Barbara had achieved a few modest successes. Between Trevor's dad's money and business contacts and Barbara's access to Gordon's police work, they had anonymously helped solve two small embezzlement cases, found a number of missing people, and revealed a network of bribery in the lower echelons of City Hall. But they were both growing impatient with their limited success, and had eagerly thrown themselves into their latest investigation, which was the most difficult and important matter they had yet tackled. Gotham, like most large cities, was home to a trade in child trafficking. The police suspected corporate backing, but had been unable to find any solid leads. Trevor and Barbara, through persistence and not a little hacking, had found enough to confirm, in their minds at least, a connection to the Deep Harbor Casino, the same one Lex Luthor had purchased and renovated.

"Do you really think Luthor knows everything that came with his purchase?" Barbara asked, reopening the old argument as she skimmed through the last twenty-four hours of computer activity from one of the casino's bookkeepers.

"It would surprise me if he didn't. Luthor's a careful man. He would know everything there was to know before he bought."

"Then why hasn't he done anything about it?" Barbara demanded. "It's not really his style."

Trevor shrugged. "It could be that he's planning to take care of the problem on his own, to save the casino's reputation. Or, he might be waiting for the most opportune moment to call in the police."

"And meanwhile hundred of children are victimized," Barbara muttered in disgust.

"Have you found out any more about those Riddle murders?" Trevor asked, changing the subject.

Barbara shook her head regretfully. Gordon had been unusually tightlipped about the homicides, and it was driving her crazy. She got the crazy feeling that it was more than police protocol that he was particularly intent on keeping her out of this one. Whenever the case came up, his eyes would rest on her, but he would glance away the moment he met her gaze.

"Let me know if that kid gives you any trouble," Trevor said unexpectedly.

Barbara looked over, confused. "What kid?"

"Grayson."

She rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer. "How could he possible give me trouble?" Trevor didn't answer, and Barbara turned back to her records, Rick Grayson's existence slipping easily from her mind.

* * *

Sarah reached across the table and laid her fingers on top of Gordon's. "Jim, what's wrong?"

He forced a smile. "What isn't? This riddle case is about to hit the fan—if it hasn't already." He left unspoken the other things that weighed him down, like his family's cold resignation to Sarah's presence, and the increasing amount of time Babs was spending at the house of that bird boy (Gordon's private nickname for Trevor Wren).

"Jim," Sarah began hesitantly, and he knew she was about to say something he wouldn't like. "About the case—are you sure it's wise to trust the Batman so implicitly?"

Gordon stared at her. "Do you honestly think the Batman is knocking off his enemies?"

"Not necessarily, but this case is personal for him. Don't you think it's possible he'll, well, cross a few lines during the investigation and not tell you?"

"He's stepped over plenty of lines in the past, and he _never_ tells me everything he's doing," Gordon said dryly. "But if you're asking whether he'll do anything more outrageous than usual, then no. He's made up some kind of a code for himself and he sticks to it, no matter what."

"What kind of a code?"

"He's never told me," Gordon said flatly.

"But you must have some guesses," she persisted.

Gordon traced the design on his plate with his fork tines, hesitating. "He never kills anyone," he said finally.

"Never kills anyone?" she exclaimed in disbelief. "What about the guy in the bank robbery last month?"

"He was killed in the course of committing a crime, but Batman didn't kill him," Gordon insisted.

He could tell by Sarah's compressed lips that she didn't agree, but finally dropped the subject. "So, is your mother-in-law still referring to me as 'that dinner guest'?" Gordon winced and Sarah laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."

"I'm sorry," he said miserably.

""Jim, it's all right. I don't expect your family to just … take me into their bosoms."

"Their bosoms? You've been reading _Anne of Green Gables_ again," he accused. They both laughed, and then Gordon said soberly, "It's not you that Jane doesn't like, you know, or even the fact that I'm ready for a relationship. It's your job."

"She doesn't like cops."

"Nope. Never has."

"I suppose she wasn't too thrilled by your marriage."

"That's the understatement of the year. Actually, we were cowards and eloped. She didn't speak to us for a few years, but she came around when Babs was born."

Sarah looked wistful. Both her parents were dead and her only immediate family was a brother down south she hadn't talked to in three years. "I know my mom always wanted grandkids. I'm sorry she never got any. You're lucky to have Jane."

"I know," Gordon answered sincerely.

"About the Batman …" Sarah said abruptly. "Just be careful, Jim."

"Don't worry about me. And don't worry about the Bat, either. He's on our side."

Sarah sighed, running her finger around the rim of her water glass. "I hope so."

* * *

"Richard doing his homework?" Bruce asked, wandering into the pool room where Alfred was pottering with his aspidistras.

"I believe he's in conference with Mr. Peaceable."

"Oh good, that means the connection's working. I'm dubious about those South American providers."

"Yes, I think the system will work out quite well." Alfred snipped off a withered leaf and stepped back to admire his handiwork. "I actually talked Mr. Peaceable myself, earlier today. He wanted to make certain his equipment was functioning before his scheduled appointment with Richard. I called the office to let you know, but Jessica said you were in conference with Selina Kyle." Alfred pulled forward another pot.

"We weren't in conference exactly. She stopped by to give me a gift." Bruce wandered around the table, idly poking at the leaves of a purple orchid.

"Sir, please do not disturb the Phalanopsis. It's quite sensitive."

"Sorry."

"Did Dick … Richard … seem a little quiet to you?"

"Perhaps a bit. I think he was overwhelmed. It has been some time since he's had extended interaction with a group of his peers. I think it will be good for him."

"I hope you're right." Bruce started to reach for a pot full of blossoms, but caught himself when Alfred glared.

"What was the occasion?"

Bruce looked blank. "Occasion?"

"For the gift."

"Gift? Oh, nothing. It was just a joke," he said vaguely.

Alfred waited a minute, then prompted, "I like a good joke as much as the next man."

Bruce looked very faintly irritated. "She gave me an inflatable life vest in case I get knocked into another pool."

"Ah. Very clever. But then, she's a clever woman."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Nothing. That's how you described her to me the first time you met her."

"Did I?" Bruce had gone back from irritated to vague. "I'm going to go see if D-Rick-ard is off the computer."

He left the pool room and Alfred, staring abstractedly at a philodendron, cut off two perfectly healthy leaves before he realized what he was doing. Setting down his clippers, he frowned at the mutilated plant and thought about the puzzle of Selina Kyle. Every time her name entered a conversation, Bruce grew peculiar. It was probably not apparent to everyone, but to Alfred's trained eye the difference was obvious, and the best word he could think of to describe it was shifty. Something about the woman disturbed the master of Wayne Manor to the point that he didn't want to discuss her. _He is a man, and not a very old one at that. Rachel Dawes moved away a long time ago_, the butler reflected. _I think I would like to meet Miss Kyle._

* * *

"How was your first day back?" Alex asked, his voice slightly out of sync with the image of his face on the computer screen.

Richard sighed. "It didn't feel like going back, more like I'd never been."

Alex looked sympathetic. "It has been a few years. How was the math class?"

The boy made a face. "Easy. So easy it confused me."

"You'll catch on soon enough," Alex said, laughing. "Maybe you should explain things to the teacher."

"Maybe," Richard said doubtfully. "How's Colombia?"

"Hot. Really hot. But Dr. Marquez has been a gracious host, and fortunately, he has air conditioning."

"In the middle of the jungle?"

"_Si, Señor Grayson_. Which reminds me, _como está su clase de español_?"

"_Muy facil,_" Rick smirked. "_Pero con mucha tarea._"

"_Que bien. Eres flojo y necesitas practicar_."

"_Es una mentira, no soy flojo,_" he protested. "And anyway, this is supposed to be math, not Spanish."

"All right," Alex relented, "but you should really come visit while I'm down here. A couple weeks of exposure would do a lot for your accent."

"What's wrong with my accent?"

"To American ears? Nothing. Have you looked through that book I left yet?"

"Most of it. It's a little out there."

"Time theory always is. Finish it by Thursday because I've got a surprise for you."

"Really? What's happening on Thursday?"

"_No puedo decir. Es una __sorpresa_."

"Oh come on, just a hint?"

Alex grinned. "Nope. You're going to have to wait."

_To Be Continued_


	7. January: Decrescendo

**A/N** An update! And it's a nice, long one! To give fair warning, it may be a little while before the next one because school starts on Monday and I kind of got, um, no prep done over break. I am so not ready to go back! I'll send out review responses tomorrow, but right now I'm going enjoy the first night of sleep in my own bed in two weeks!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

Chapter 7

_Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love._

_- Charlie Brown_

"Cops are getting uneasy," Gordon said, wishing he had remembered his scarf before he had come up on the roof. "And if they're asking questions it won't be long before the media and then the rest of the city start asking the same questions."

"Whether I'm the Riddler?"

"Yeah. I wish we could have kept the riddles out of the papers. At least Bailey hasn't been dragged into it yet. My daughter goes there."

"She'll be fine."

"If he really is knocking off your enemies, I guess she will be. But I still don't like my kid running around a school that's a workshop for a serial killer."

"Anything else I should know?" the Bat asked.

"No. I was hoping you'd have news for me."

"Sorry."

"The riddle thing is still priority. And if you can think of any way to spike the media's guns, that would be great. I'm taking enough heat from Loeb. Any more might cook me."

"I'll see what I can do."

"I appreciate that," Gordon said, but the Bat was already gone.

* * *

For the most part, Batman avoided the business district. The more upscale parts particularly bristled with guards and security cameras, but he did take the occasional shortcut, vaulting over rooftops where he was sure the cameras couldn't see. Tonight he was headed for the docks, to check out a rumor about the cargo of certain newly arrived ships, when the smash of glass and the scream of alarms in the street below commanded his attention.

A guard burst out of a storefront. "Stop!" he bellowed and, lifting his gun, began squeezing off shots as fast as he could in the general direction of the roofs. Batman had to duck behind a large vent before he could catch sight of the guard's target, but a moment later, a black shape slithered over the edge of the roof. It gave a low spring toward the same vent that sheltered Batman, checked just in time, and froze, staring at him.

Batman couldn't help staring back. The escapee was obviously a woman, dressed in a very formfitting, black jumpsuit and tall, supple boots. She wore a mask similar to his own in that it protected her eyes and nose and curved in along the base of her skull. But the most curious thing about the outfit was the two oblong projections that came out from the mask at an angle, exactly like ears.

She was still crouched, looking up at him, and suddenly, she tilted her head to the side and asked (when he thought about it later he was ready to swear she did it tauntingly), "Meow?"

Before he could react, she was leaping away, and he had to tear after her as the guard's shots ricocheted off the vent behind them. Her movements were fluid, and she flew across the roofs as though they were familiar hunting ground. Despite his best efforts, she drew farther and farther ahead, until she disappeared from sight behind an elevated billboard. When he reached the spot she was gone, and although he combed the surrounding area for an hour, he found no hint of the direction she had taken.

* * *

"Bruce up?" Dick asked, sliding into his chair and narrowly missing the toast with his elbow.

"Not yet. Oatmeal?"

"Thanks. Hey, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Richard?"

"Did you ever ride the school bus?"

Alfred paused, looking thoughtful. "No, I don't believe I ever did. I always lived close enough to walk."

"Oh." Richard dug a moat in his oatmeal with his spoon and sighed. "Still a month to go."

Alfred echoed the sigh. "You'll have your license soon enough. On the bright side, riding the bus is better for the environment than driving an individual vehicle."

"He's never going to let me get a motorcycle, is he?" Richard asked mournfully, before shoving a heaping spoon into his mouth.

"Perhaps not this birthday," Alfred said in a carefully neutral tone. "They can be … dangerous machines."

Richard got a dreamy look on his face. "Yeah."

"If you're not going to finish that, you'd better go. The bus will be at the gate in seven minutes."

Rick glanced at his watch and jumped up. "I forgot to print off my homework." When he made it to the front hall, loaded satchel swung across his shoulder, Alfred was waiting with a paper bag. "Your lunch."

"Thanks," Richard said gratefully, accepting the bag and grinning at its weight.

"Have a nice day, Master Richard."

"You too!" Rick ran down the steps and grabbed his bike. He beat the bus by half a minute, and had the security gate open as it pulled to a stop. Leaning his bike against the wall just inside the gate, he pulled it shut behind him and got on the bus.

He had felt uncharacteristically nervous about this part of the school experience, partly because in the movies the school bus was the frequent site of bullying and traumatic conversations. Neither option was appealing, and he was relieved to see that the bus was almost empty, the few kids on it apparently asleep. He took a window seat in the middle and stared blankly out at the passing city. He was determined to accomplish more today than he had yesterday because if he was going to be of any use at all, he had to pull his act together and stay focused. If he were to admit it to himself, he actually felt rather daunted by the task ahead of him. On paper, the task of infiltrating Bailey had seemed complex but workable, like a great chess strategy. But in reality, the players on his board were willful and unpredictable. Instead of outguessing one opponent, he had to outguess several hundred in order to find the one who was out of place, the one who was a murderer …

"Rick!" A squeal jerked him from his reverie, and with an inward groan he recognized Amanda Irving.

"I can't believe you ride this bus," she bubbled, sitting next to him without asking whether the seat was free. "At least, I know Wayne Manor would be on this route because the outer edge of your property is only a mile from my house. But I can't believe you ride the bus at all. Doesn't Bruce Wayne have like fifty sports cars? And a limo? You didn't ride the bus yesterday."

The last remark wasn't phrased as a question, but Rick guessed that since she had finally paused and was looking at him expectantly, he was supposed to explain. "Bruce drove me yesterday since it was the first day, but riding the bus is …" _a way to help me integrate more quickly so that I can stop a serial killer _". . . better for the environment."

Amanda's eyes widened improbably. "Oh, wow, I respect that so much!" she breathed.

Rick felt like smacking his head against the window, but fortunately, the bus pulled up to the curb, and the new passenger proved to be Zorello from Life Skills. "Hey Mr. P!" he greeted the driver in a voice that could be heard at the back of the bus. "Got a big natural science presentation to give today. Snakes!" He nodded meaningfully at the large cardboard box he carried.

Amanda slid closer to Rick. "You don't think he's got live snakes in that box, do you?"

Zorello started up the aisle, but halfway up, just before Amanda's row, he tripped and fell headlong. The box was thrown against a seat, the lid popped off, and dozens of lithe green bodies erupted onto the floor. Shouts and screams filled the bus, the loudest in Rick's ear as Amanda snatched her feet onto the seat and threw herself into his lap.

Zorello scrambled to his feet and bellowed, "Nobody panic! They're just rubber!"

The pandemonium was immediately placed by irritated grumbles, with the exception of Amanda, who was whimpering into Rick's neck.

"Amanda, it's okay, they're fake," he muttered, trying to loosen her stranglehold.

At last she consented to return to her own seat, Rick painfully aware that everyone around them was staring.

"I'm so glad I'm sitting next to you. I would have been so frightened otherwise," she gasped.

He tried to smile politely, privately hoping he never happened to be nearby when she was really scared. She'd probably strangle him for real.

"I wanted to show you something," Amanda chirped, completely recovered. She pulled a copy of _Gotham Gossip_ out of her book bag and flipped it open to a page she obviously had memorized. "It's us!"

His stomach sinking, Rick stared at the picture of himself and Amanda on the front steps of Bailey. His own face was averted and blank, while Amanda hung on his arm, attached like a blonde growth. _At least I've got a good poker face_, he thought glumly, before scanning the modest half-page article.

_**Princeling edges out of nest**_

_For the first time in 7 years, Richard Grayson is going back to school. Since his miraculous rags-to-riches rescue from an abusive foster home by his billionaire guardian, Bruce Wayne, Richard has worked with a private tutor, but the time has finally come for him to leave the safety of Wayne Manor. After his first day at Bailey Academy, we stopped by to see how his day went. While Richard seemed a little shy, his fellow sophomore, Amanda Irving, stuck around to give us a few comments._

"_Rick's going to fit in so well here at Bailey. I was just thrilled to welcome him to our school, and I'm really looking forward to developing our friendship," she said._

_If all of Richard's new classmates are as enthusiastic as pretty Amanda, we predict a sweet ride through high school for the new student—perhaps not surprising for the heir of Gotham's own pet billionaire. Speaking of following in Bruce Wayne's footsteps, we think Wayne had better keep a sharp eye on that Sexiest title, or he may find a certain teen gearing up to take it away from him. We like the hair, Richard!_

His face flaming, Richard slumped into the corner and wished for a hole to appear in the floor of the bus so that he could slip beneath its merciful wheels. _Please, don't let anyone else at school ever see this. Especially Barbara Gordon. __Please__!_

"Isn't it great?" Amanda gushed, holding up the page to be admired. "I'm going to hang it in my locker."

"No!" gasped Richard. "I mean, you wouldn't want your friends to think you and I … that is … that you're showing off about getting in the magazine or anything."

Amanda laughed. "That's silly! And I don't care even if they do. Besides, I'm hanging it up because you're in it, not because I'm in it! Now everyone will know who you are, even though you're new." She pulled a pair of scissors from her bag and began carefully cutting out the article.

Rick leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and wished for death. Or at least a sudden and debilitating illness that would require two months of bed rest. _If I had a motorcycle, this wouldn't be happening. I could just drive myself to school, and Amanda could throw herself on top of somebody else the next time there's an infestation of snakes. I wonder how Barbara feels about guys with motorcycles?_

Unfortunately, when the bus finally pulled up in front of the school, Amanda took her time repacking her bag so that they were the last two off the bus. Gratefully remembering that his first period teacher has assigned him homework so that the textbook was already in his bag, Rick said hastily, "See you later," the moment they made it inside and pounded off down the nearest hallway, regardless of where it led, before remembering that he'd never actually been to homeroom. But he had the room number and the basic layout of the school memorized, and if he got really lost, he could ask someone. Someone who was not Amanda Irving.

Richard swung into a hallway which he was pretty sure would lead to the right section of the building and was getting close, when one of the approaching faces made him pause. David Stern, the guy whose mom had been killed by the riddle murderer, was white-faced and tight lipped, was blindly shoving past people in his hurry. Rick swung to the side to avoid being hit and, after a moment of hesitation, followed. David Stern was as good a place to start as any, and there was a strained desperation on his face that alarmed Rick. The guy obviously needed help.

David, a few feet ahead, swung around a corner and by the time Rick arrived the other boy had disappeared. Surveying the available doors, Rick chose the bathroom and ducked inside. The open area was empty, but he heard someone throwing up in one of the stalls. Whoever it was sounded really sick and Rick, remembering David's pale face, bet that he had guessed right. He stood at the sink pretending to wash his hands, and a minute later David emerged and leaned, shaking, against another sink.

"You ok?" Rick asked cautiously. "Want me to call the nurse or someone to take you home?"

He was unprepared for the speed or the fury with which David turned on him. "What business is it of yours? I don't need to go home," he snarled.

"Whoa, sorry! It's just that … you don't look so good."

David offered a frontal view of his middle finger and stormed back out into the hall.

"That went well," Rick muttered, staring after him in dismay. After a minute, he remembered that he was supposed to be going to class and had barely five minutes before the bell. He pounded down the hall to where room 344 should have been but found a dead end after 343. The hall was deserted, but Rick caught a flash of blue coverall passing the opening of another hallway. "Mr. Harris?" he shouted, sprinting in that direction.

The janitor backed up to the intersection. "What can I do for you, young man?"

"Where's 344?"

Mr. Harris smiled and shook his head. "That throws everyone for a loop. It's halfway down that stairwell on the right."

"Thanks!" Dick called over his shoulder, already hustling toward the stairs. He slipped into his seat with five seconds to spare.

Hal grinned at him. "I heard there was some excitement on the bus this morning."

Rick just shook his head and groaned.

"Not your type?" Hal whispered as the bell rang and the teacher started taking attendance.

"Not really. Oh no!"

"What?"

"She's in our history class," Rick hissed a little too loudly, earning him a stern look from Mr. Smith.

After English, Richard and Hal (who thought the whole thing was hilarious) lingered in the bathroom until they were actually late to history, earning them a tardy point apiece. Amanda sat in the row behind them, thanks to Harris, Healy, and Henry, and she smiled and waved when they came in. Richard pretended not to see her, and when class was over, he bolted from the room before Hal even had his books together.

"Packing a lunch already, huh?" Hal asked as they headed toward the cafeteria at lunchtime.

"Why don't you?"

"My mom keeps forgetting to go grocery shopping. You don't have to wait in line with me. Our usual table's over there," Hal said, pointing, as he queued up behind a couple of freshmen.

"I remember." Richard took two steps in the right direction, then frantically backed up and ducked behind Hal. "Amanda's over there!"

"Oh yeah. I forgot she's kind of friends with April." Hal looked apologetic.

"Great. No way am I sitting over there now. No offense."

"Oh come on, she's not that bad."

"You're only saying that because she didn't jump in _your_ lap and scream in _your_ ear. It's still ringing. Ok, I'm outta here. See you in gym."

Rick slunk behind a couple of students with loaded trays, scooted behind a pillar, and made it safely to the far side of the cafeteria. Relaxing slightly, he looked around for a seat. There were no empty tables, so he would have to join a group, _which would be more productive anyway_, he reminded himself. Casually scanning the nearby tables, he discovered several students staring at him, all girls. Focusing on one attractive brunette, he tried a smile. She immediately smiled back and tossed her head so that her shining hair swung up over her shoulder. _That looks promising. Better than David Stern, anyway_. He was about to walk forward when someone behind him shouted, "Hey Rick!"

He turned and found Zorello striding toward him, balancing a loaded tray. "Yeah?" Rick asked, not feeling particularly friendly.

"Need a place to sit?"

On the one hand, he wanted to strangle the guy with one of his own snakes. On the other, hanging out with him would possibly discourage Amanda. "Sure."

"You would have ended up here sooner or later," Zorello said comfortably, leading the way to a table that held three other students. "It's where you belong."

"I do?" Rick asked uncertainly, setting his tray beside a girl he recognized from the country club. "Hi Samantha."

She raised bored eyes, nodded, then dropped her gaze back to her bag of baked sun chips.

"Sure you do. You belong for the same reason I and Lindsey and Sam and Les belong."

"Why's that?" Rick obligingly asked, pulling a sandwich out of his bag.

Zorello smiled and began lining his peas in neat rows across his slice of pizza. "Because someday, we'll all be filthily, disgustingly, nauseatingly rich, without having worked a day in our lives for it. We're the heirs of Gotham."

"And heiresses," Lindsey snapped.

"And heiresses," Zorello obligingly agreed. "Frankly, we can't stand each other, but we fit. The others," he waved vaguely at the rest of the cafeteria, "will never understand. Sooner or later, you'll find that out. We mingle on occasion, sometimes even try to break free, but we always come back, right Lindsey?"

"Shut up, Johnny," she hissed, opening her package of crackers so forcefully that they broke in half.

Rick felt distinctly weirded out, and he definitely didn't "fit," whatever Johnny Zorello said. Feeling it would be wiser, however, not to express his dislike openly, he instead asked, "If you're going to inherit Gotham, why are you eating the school food?"

"You've got to admit he's got a point, Johnny," Les put in.

Johnny now had all of his peas neatly arranged on his pizza. With his fork tines, he began mashing them into the cheese. "I eat the school food because unlike some of us," he looked pointedly at Samantha's sun chips, "I at least try to stay in touch with reality."

"And is dropping snakes on the bus another way of staying in touch with reality?" Richard couldn't resist asking.

"Johnny wants to be the class clown," Lindsey put in snidely. "He's been trying for three and a half years, but he hasn't been elected yet."

"This semester," Johnny promised, picking up his knife and beginning to cut his pizza into squares. "This semester will be one the dear little snots of Bailey will never forget."

"Rubber snakes on a bus?" Les asked.

"Simply a warm-up exercise. My grand plan is, however, is already set in motion, and I defy the Batman himself to stop me."

"Johnny," Samantha said wearily, "shut up."

"In a moment, my dear Sam. Before the bell rings, we have one small item of business to attend to. I would like to propose a toast, to our comrade in exile, Garrett Wyth." He raised his Coke and looked expectantly around the table. His companions ignored him. "Well, I remember him," Johnny sighed, and set his soda back down. "Garrett is now exploring the pleasures of boarding school in Switzerland, having been requested to permanently leave this august institution last November," he explained to Richard. "You have his seat."

"Great," Rick muttered, shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth.

"Well, I'm done." Johnny had pushed the pieces of his neatly dissected pizza into a geometrically pleasing arrangement around his plate without consuming a single bite. "It's been real, as always." Standing, he dropped his tray, plate, silverware, and all into the garbage and walked away.

"Me too," Rick said, shoving himself away from the table. None of the other three gave him a second look. _Heirs of Gotham_, he thought disgustedly. _Heirs of stupidity is more like it._

He spent the rest of the lunch period exploring the halls around the cafeteria, memorizing locker banks, fire extinguishers, and air vents, the kind of details he kept track of in every other quarter of Gotham. When he got to math class, Carmen Leo was already in her seat, her hair draped over her face. "Hi," Rick sighed, not sure he wanted an answer. So far, the friendly people at Bailey were the ones he would rather not have met.

Carmen shifted slightly and pulled back her curtain of hair just enough to make the tip of her nose visible. "Hi," she whispered, before letting the curtain fall back into place.

Rick kept his head down and his mouth shut for the duration of the period, and things went much smoother than they had the day before. There was still the problem of finishing the in-class work too soon, but he filled the empty minutes by working the answers to his decimal/fraction conversions into a number puzzle to send Alex.

And then it was time for Life Skills. Rick's anticipation at seeing Barbara again was only slightly dampened by the thought that Amanda would also be present. Sidling up to the door, he peered in and saw that Barbara's seat was empty while Amanda's was full. _Perfect_, he thought, edging back and bending down so that he could pretend to adjust his shoe laces.

Barbara came down the hall from somewhere beyond his math classroom. _Better and better_, Rick gloated, suddenly feeling fond of the room in which numbers had, for the first time, become boring. "Hi Barbara," he greeted her, straightening up.

"Hi," she said coolly, barely looking at him.

_That was friendly, wasn't it? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was friendly. Way better than yesterday._ He followed her in and even managed to return Amanda's overly warm hello with equanimity.

"I can't believe you didn't see me in history again," she pouted.

"I was late," Rick mumbled, head in his book bag as he groped around for the pen that always managed to slip to the bottom. "So was that homework last night lame, or what?"

He was facing Barbara as he voiced the question, but of course it was Amanda who answered. "I know, I was completely asleep by …" She broke off as Mr. Davis came into the room.

The day's lecture was no more interesting than the previous one had been, but Barbara was wearing pants, and Rick discovered that when her legs weren't around to distract him, he could pay a lot more attention to her face, which was breathtaking. _She's more beautiful than half the women Bruce dates. I wonder if she wants to be a model? Wait, she said she was going to get a full ride to college, and I don't think models have to go to college. Do they?_

Filled with these and other equally pleasant speculations the period flew by, and Mr. Davis was suddenly (or so it seemed to Rick) announcing the homework. "And be sure to set up a work schedule with your partners so that you'll be ready to go next week. I'll be giving out the first group assignment on Monday."

_Great_, Rick thought happily, lovingly closing his textbook and reaching down for his bag. Barbara was already on her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "What …" he began, but before he could finish the question she strode toward the door, her longs legs quickly carrying her out of it. Rick threw his bag over his shoulder and ran after her, only fractionally aware of a plaintive voice calling his name behind him. "Hey Barbara, wait up!" He had to run to catch up, and when he did, she didn't stop, merely gave him an irritated glance as she kept walking.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to ask what days would work best for you. For working on Life Skills stuff."

"I haven't decided yet. I'll email your Bailey account before Monday."

"Do you need my phone number too?" Rick asked hopefully.

"I'll just email. Hi, T."

_T?_ Richard wondered, confused, before he looked up and saw Trevor Wren leaning casually against a locker a few feet away.

"Hey, babe," Trevor responded, but his eyes rested on Rick as he reached out and caught his girlfriend around the waist, pulling her close.

_Just go,_ Rick told himself grimly, striding down the hallway as quickly as he could. _She calls him T? How stupid is that? It was probably his idea. I would never make her call me R, and if …_ Richard was so caught up in his inner ranting that he walked straight into a woman who was backing out of a classroom with an armload of books. With dismay, he recognized his math teacher. "Ms. Simpkins, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees and frantically gathering up the fallen books.

"You have eyes, Richard. I suggest you use them," the teacher snapped as he handed her the books.

_Get a grip,_ Rick told himself as he hurried toward the gym. _This Barbara Gordon thing is out of control. Sure, she's hot. Ok, she's really __really__ hot, but this is ridiculous. I have much more important things to think about. Not getting kicked out of math for one. And … and …_ He cringed, but forced his mental lecture to continue. _And she has a long term boyfriend who's good looking and a great athlete and her own age and, face it, Grayson, he's taller than she is. You don't have a chance, any chance, so forget about it and do your job._

Feeling depressed but determined after his self pep talk, Rick scrambled into his uniform in the almost deserted locker room and ran into the gym just in time for roll call. They were beginning a unit on basketball, and the thudding of balls made conversation difficult, so it wasn't until afterwards as they showered and dressed that Hal was able to talk to him. "Amanda was really upset that you didn't sit with us at lunch."

"Huh," Rick said vaguely, bending over to tie his shoes.

"And April thinks it's my fault you didn't sit with us, so now they're both mad at me."

"Tell them you had nothing to do with it," Rick answered unsympathetically.

"Come on, man, help me out here. Just sit with us tomorrow, that's all I ask."

Rick pulled on his blazer and swung his bag over his shoulder. "Sure, why not?" he agreed unenthusiastically. After all, he had no need to impress Barbara, so it didn't really matter whether or not he was seen with dippy Amanda.

"Thanks, I owe you one," Hal said gratefully as they left the locker room.

"You're welcome," Rick muttered. _More important things,_ he reminded himself. _Starting tomorrow, I'm the best student Ms. Simpkins ever had. And then I'm going to find a way to make friends with David Stern._

_To Be Continued_


	8. January: Poco Piu Moto

**A/N** Update! Sixteen page update! Let all true citizens of Gotham rejoice!

For some reason, it's taken me a year to figure out that Alex should be Dr. Peaceable, not Mr. Peaceable, so, he will henceforth (and backforth when I can get around to editing previous stories) be referred to as such.

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

Chapter 8

"_Will you walk a little faster?"  
Said a whiting to a snail,  
"There's a porpoise close behind us,  
And he's treading on my tail.  
See how eagerly the lobsters  
And the turtles all advance!  
They are waiting on the shingle -  
Will you come and join the dance?"  
—__Alice in Wonderland_

"She was faster than me," Bruce said, almost absently, staring at his computer screen.

"Who, sir?" Alfred asked, looking up from the stack of newspapers he was patiently scanning for anything noteworthy.

Bruce looked away from his screen and pointed at the page Alfred held, whose headline screamed **Kat-Burglar Kaptures 150 K**."The woman who robbed Bergman's last night. I was in the area when the alarms went off, and she nearly ran right into me. But I couldn't catch her. She was too fast. She obviously knows the territory."

Alfred began cutting out the article. "Do you think she's connected to the casino robbery?"

"I think she's the same one. Two big jewel thefts in two weeks, with a burglar that can't be caught … she's wearing a costume. A cat costume."

"Cat costume, cat burglar," Alfred put the pieces together. "She would seem to have a sense of humor."

"Mmm hmm." Bruce's focus was back on the computer.

Alfred wasn't fooled. "Something disturbs you. Besides the fact that she was faster."

"She seemed … familiar."

"From the casino?"

"No. I feel as though I've encountered her before, but …" He shook his head. "It was too quick. If I see her again, something might trigger the memory."

"Do you think you will?"

"I'm planning on it." Closing out his program, Bruce stood up and came over to the newspaper littered table.

"Jewel thieves aren't among the Batman's usual projects," Alfred observed, placing the new cutting on his neat stack.

"No, but we need something unusual. Something to take _this_ off the public's, and the media's, mind." He held up an editorial which lambasted the GCPD in general and chief of police James Gordon in particular for failing to find the riddle killer.

"Forgive me, sir, but I don't see how distracting the public by pointing to another unsolved set of crimes will help the chief's predicament."

Bruce looked irritated. "I don't intend to let her keep escaping. And now that she's made two very successful hits, not to mention outrunning Batman, she'll get cocky, and then she'll get stupid. And then," he gently laid the newspaper back down, "we'll have her."

* * *

Thursday afternoon, Richard trudged wearily out of gym, Hal yammering beside him.

"I really appreciate your sitting with us at lunch."

"Uh huh," Rick replied vaguely, mentally wincing away from the memory. He was certain that even enduring the company of Zorello's bizarre posse would be preferable to another uninterrupted session of Amanda.

"I'm pretty sure April's stopped being mad at me, although I'm thinking I'd better take a peace offering when I pick her up Friday night. Do you think flowers or chocolates would be better?" Hal slapped himself on the forehead. "What am I saying? I'd better have plenty of both."

The seventy-nine eightieths of Rick's brain that were not paying attention to Hal zoomed in on David Stern a few feet ahead of them, who suddenly ducked down a hallway. Rick tried to remember the hall on the school plans since it was one of the few he hadn't actually been down yet. He thought it was mostly maintenance related, and decided to find out what business David could possibly have down there. Turning to Hal, he started to make an excuse, "I'm going to …"

"Hey, Grayson," a voice behind them interrupted.

Rick turned and found himself face to face with Trevor Wren, or rather, face to collar bone since the other guy was a full head taller and standing uncomfortably close.

"Hey, Rick, I've gotta go," Hal said much too brightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

_Some friend_, Richard thought sourly, backing up a step so that he could look Trevor in the eye without craning his neck. "What's up, Tren?" Several students who had stopped a safe distance away were gawking.

Trevor's stance was casual, but his expression was cold. "I'm only going to say this once, Ricky, so get it right the first time."

Rick's temper flared. "Gee, I dunno, Trev, I'm kind of a slow learner. Are you sure you couldn't repeat it a couple of times?" _Stupid_, he scolded the moment the words were out of his mouth. _Do you want him to beat you up? Remember you'll have to let him win_.

Trevor's eyes narrowed but all he said was, "Don't annoy Barbara."

"Has she been complaining?"

The Tren ignored the question. "I wanted to make sure you understand that being her Life Skills partner doesn't give you any privileges. You do what she tells you, when she tells you, and then you leave her alone, got it?"

Their gazes locked and held for a long moment, before Rick forced himself to say, "I got it."

Trevor strode away without another word, and Richard clenched his teeth, stifling the urge to run after him and severely disfigure those chiseled features. With an effort, he remembered David Stern and hurried to the hallway intersection. But the passageway was deserted, and as Richard walked down it he found nothing but locked doors. Maybe David had come back out while he was occupied with Trevor.

A heavier, wider door stood at the very end of the hallway, and as Richard stood debating about what to do, it swung open and the figure of the janitor appeared. He looked at Rick in surprise. "Are you looking for something, young man?"

"Oh, hey Mr. Harris. Naw, I just wanted to see what was down here." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Aw crap, I gotta go or I'm going to miss the bus!" Rick started to jog away, but stopped when the janitor called after him.

"There's a press conference going on on the front steps."

Rick turned back and stared. "What?"

"The blonde girl who was in the magazine with you. She's talking to some reporters out there, waiting for you, I think."

He groaned. "Amanda! That girl's going to drive me crazy!"

Mr. Harris looked sympathetic. "Sweet on you already, is she?"

Rick shuddered, "I hope not."

The older man scratched his head thoughtfully. "I'm not really supposed to do this," he began slowly, "but I could show you a shortcut to the parking lot. I think you could slip on the bus without being seen, if you hurry."

"Really? That would be great!"

Mr. Harris grinned and led the way to the door he'd emerged from. "Guess I've given a woman the slip a time or two myself. See how old this lock is? It doesn't hold quite right, so if you give it a good tug up and over," he demonstrated the maneuver, "you can get right in."

The door swung open to reveal a pair of cement steps leading down. Mr. Harris led the way, down, and then through a corridor that looked surprisingly like the ones above ground. "These aren't really classrooms down here, are they?" Rick asked as they past a row of identical doors.

"Sure are. Back when they first built the school, there was a crazy law about not building things too high. Neighborhood didn't want any big buildings blocking out the sun, so they built a lot of the school under ground. Don't use most of it anymore—the psychologists decided it was bad for the students to be in those gloomy rooms, and they built everything they needed above ground. Pretty much just used for storage now."

_And a few other things_, Rick silently conjectured, wondering where in this labyrinth David Stern had disappeared to. He'd known, of course, that the school had extensive underground space, but for some reason, he hadn't really considered it significant before, maybe because none of the students had talked about it and the entrances were neatly out of the mainstream. But there had to be students who had figured out how to get in and used it for their own purposes.

They went down another flight, and the scenery switched from abandoned classrooms to the more expected basement accessories of unpainted pipes and lonely incandescent bulbs. The exit was a heavy metal door at the top of a short flight of steps which pushed open into a well at the edge of the teachers' parking lot. In the distance, Rick heard the bus engine rumbling, and Mr. Harris looked at him expectantly.

Obviously, he was not going to find David Stern this afternoon, but he was going to go back and investigate Bailey's underside as soon as he could. "Thanks, Mr. Harris," he said with genuine gratitude and sprang up the steps.

Slipping through the cars in the student lot toward where the bus stood waiting at the curb, he saw that there were at least two reporters still standing by the front doors, accompanied by a blonde whose head was bare despite the cold and the amount of time she had been standing there. Muttering darkly, Rick ducked down behind a Volvo and moved toward the bus as quickly as he could without breaking cover, and made it just as the driver was pulling the door closed.

* * *

Lucius Fox settled himself in a hard wooden chair in front of a matching table. _I don't know why we never put padded seats down at this level_, he though crankily, _it's not like we can't afford it_. He looked again at the sheaf of computer paper, a little dog-eared, but no worse than it had been when they first pulled it out of its plastic wrapping seven years ago. All work on the document's contents had been done from copies to preserve the original, but this was a special occasion.

Rifling through the sheets and peering at the methodical handwriting as though he could read a man's character in it, he thought about Richard Grayson. Fox had a whole lot of uncomfortable suspicions about Bruce Wayne's illicit activities, which he did his best not to think about so as to avoid ever actually knowing anything. But every so often, he couldn't' help wondering what Richard suspected or outright knew about … whatever Bruce did that required the permanent loan of all that top secret equipment.

Sometimes he thought that, bright as Richard was, he couldn't have helped but figure it out. But then he hoped that the kid was too bright, that he, like other geniuses, stayed wrapped up in his theoretical world. Although his encounters with the boy never really seemed to support this second theory, neither did he ever seem like the kind of kid who knew he lived in a house haunted by secrets. This impression was reinforced yet again as Richard came through the door, escorted by a security guard. Surely that smile was too open, that gaze too straightforward to harbor dark secrets.

"Hello, Mr. Fox," the boy said cheerfully. "The guard said we're five hundred feet underground. I didn't know Wayne Tower went this far down."

"Most people don't. We like to keep it that way." Fox motioned to the table. "Go ahead and have a seat. Sorry I can't offer you a more comfortable chair."

Richard shrugged. "That's ok, they don't cushion the desks at school either."

"Ah right, and how are you liking Bailey?"

Richard shrugged again. "It's all right."

"Ah, the perennial enthusiasm of the teenager for school."

The boy smiled at the timeworn joke, and then said directly, "Look, Mr. Fox, what's this all about? Alex has been driving me crazy about his stupid surprise."

Fox's mustache twitched as he suppressed a smile. "He does enjoy his little games. However, I think you'll find this surprise well worth the wait and not at all stupid. How much do you know about your father's work, Richard?"

For a moment, the boy looked curiously blank, and then understanding dawned. "You mean my real dad?"

"Yes, Charles Grayson, or Maddox as he was actually known as a scholar."

"Not much. He only published a couple of articles before he disappeared, and the only personal things of his I have were in that box—the knife and the marriage certificate."

"Along with your mother's locket, your birth certificate, their will, and a letter to you."

"Yeah."

"Are you aware that there was also another document in the box?"

Richard looked surprised, then frowned. "I think Bruce did once mention something about papers, but he said the other things were more important and we could talk about it later."

"Well …" Fox gently pushed the stack of paper over to him. "It's later. And while Mr. Wayne was certainly right about importance from a personal point of view, the rest of the world would argue that that is relative."

"Did my dad write this?" Richard asked, picking up the top sheet and examining it closely.

"Yes. There are some notes at the end, one of which asserts his authorship."

The boy frowned, squinting as though he needed to make the numbers clearer. "What is it?"

"It's a time theory. It attempts to describe the nature of time and, ultimately, suggests a way to manipulate it."

"Whoa," Richard breathed. "Is it any good?"

"The best of its kind I've ever seen."

"Whoa," he repeated, then gently set the sheet down and asked, "Why are you telling me about this now?"

"It was Dr. Peaceable's idea. We recruited him to the think team about a year ago, and he's been suggesting we bring you in for almost as long. You see, while your father's theory is sound, and revolutionary, as far as it goes, it's really only the first step. For the past few years we've been doing our best to pick up where he left off but … it's slow going."

"But how can I help? I don't even understand the first two lines of this," Richard protested.

"You will, and you know more than you think you do. Dr. Peaceable assures me that you're ready. So what do you think? Would you like to start coming to Wayne Tower two, perhaps three times a week to work with our team?"

"Does Bruce …?"

"He knows and approves. Are you in?"

Richard's grin threatened to split his face. "Totally."

* * *

After school the next day, Rick managed to shake off Hal after gym and headed down the corridor to the basement entrance. Certain that he wasn't being observed, he jiggled the lock like he'd been shown and the door swung open. Shutting it behind him and running lightly down the steps, he began to make his way quickly but silently through the layers of basement.

The upper sections were quite dull—old classrooms now stacked with stage scenery, outmoded student desks, and all the detritus that a hundred and thirty year old school can't quite bear to throw away. The layout of the sub levels was more confusing, with unexpected dead ends and odd ceilings that sometimes dipped nearly to his head and others soared up into dimness. He supposed that updating hundred and thirty year old piping and wiring would do that to a building as big as Bailey. Many of the doors here were locked, often marked with a "Danger High Voltage" sign.

Rick was almost ready to head for the outside exit when he became aware of a soft, repetitive thumping. Moving very cautiously, he crept along a low passage whose sides were slick with damp. Sticking his head around a sharp bend, he couldn't help a slight start of surprise. A dozen hideous masks, horned, leering, grotesquely colored hung on the cement walls. The passage was cut off by one of the unexpected walls, effectively creating a small room. Two ancient desks stood in the far corners, each loaded with colored candles. And in the center, his back to Richard, David Stern sat on an overturned crate, bouncing a fist sized rubber ball against the wall. It hit the wall, the floor, was caught and thrown again with machine like precision, creating the regular thumping that had caught Rick's notice. After a moment, he also became aware of muttering, in time with the thumping ball, continuous but too low to make out. And although he remained crouched there for several minutes, there was never a pause in the murmuring voice, or a hesitation of the bouncing ball.

At last, afraid of being spotted, Rick backed silently down the hall and headed for the parking lot. He had, of course, missed the bus, He could call home for a ride, he could call a taxi, or he could hike to the nearest train station. Electing the last option as the one that would take him away from Bailey the soonest, he struck out for the nearest station.

Safely in a peeling plastic seat in one of the rackety cars, he thought about Bailey with a surge of unaccustomed bitterness. Johnny Zorello who was possibly actually insane, Amanda and extreme obnoxiousness, and especially that moronic Trevor, Carmen Leo so shy she wouldn't look him in the eye, and now David Stern with his eerie room of masks. Weren't there any normal teenagers in this town?

He suddenly remembered an icy lot and a cheerful voice saying, _If you ever wanna play soccer_…

The train rumbled to a screechy halt inside one of the downtown stations. The closest stop to Wayne Manor was a still a long ways on, but Rick moved toward the door with sudden decision, hunching down in his collar to hide his face from the curious gaze of an elderly woman. At a bank of lockers inside the station, he rummaged in his bag for quarters and then stashed his bag and sleek overcoat. His Bailey blazer stood out like a beacon, but he thought he remembered a Salvation Army store around the corner.

Ten minutes later, Rick hit the streets in a bulky and shabby ski jacket, worn gloves, and a woolen hat with ear flaps and a Goofy appliqué on the front. Back in the station, he caught a train running in a direction opposite that of home and got off after a couple of spots, at a dilapidated shelter that was the most reputable part of the neighborhood it stood in.

It was a long shot, but as he approached the lot, he heard shouts and the thud of foot against ball. Rick rounded the corner just as a wild kick sent the ball flying in his direction. He jumped and caught it, then tossed it back in bounds as Niko came jogging over. "Hey, can I play?"

The other squinted, then grinned. "Hey, you're that guy who won us the playoffs game! What was your name again?"

"Rick," said Rick, not at all offended. "So can I play?"

"Sure. It's not a real game, just scrimmage. The other team's short a man, so kick toward that goal." Niko waved at a crate and dented trashcan that sat at one end of the lot.

"Got it," Rick said happily and plunged in. A week of Bailey P.E. and no nighttime excursions made him eager for the rough street rules, and in ten minutes, he had a jagged tear in one of his knees and slush plastered on the back of his coat. But the real damage didn't happen until, trying to steal the ball, he simultaneously slipped and collided with a teammate, so that he went skidding across the lot on his face.

Aware of burning and a warm wetness, Rick carefully pushed himself up and saw blood on the concrete.

"You ok?" Niko asked, running up. "Oh man, your face looks like it got nailed by the Terminator!"

Rick pulled off a glove and gingerly probed his cheek. There was a lot of grated skin, but it didn't seem to be bleeding uncontrollably. "Yeah, I'm ok."

Niko started laughing. "Yeah, because you totally look ok. You live close to here? Because if not you better come to my place and wash your face."

"I have to take the train."

"I don't think they let you ride if you're dripping blood on everything. Come on, it's time for us to go anyway. But watch out for my mama, or she'll try to drown you in hydrogen peroxide."

Niko shouted for his little brother Demetrios, and the three boys headed down the street, Rick pressing his scarf against his face to stop the blood. The brothers lived in an old, unkempt apartment building, several floors up with no elevator. Niko pushed open the door and looked in cautiously. "Good luck, mama's out," he exclaimed, pushing the door all the way open and leading the way inside. "The bathroom's right there, I'll find you a rag or something."

"Thanks." Rick stepped into the tiny bathroom that smelled slightly of mildew, despite the fact that every surface had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Peering into the cloudy mirror, he grimaced. There was a deep cut across the corner of his eyebrow that was still welling blood and a wide scrape across his cheek so that it looked like someone had rubbed a cheese grater across his face.

He heard Niko and Demetrios banging around, and then the front door of the apartment swung open. "Oh good, Niko, you're home," a girl's voice called. "Mama is sitting with Mrs. Martinez's baby, and she wants you to go get some milk."

"In a minute," Niko called back, his voice muffled as though he had his head stuck in the cupboard. "Hey Ari, where does Mama keep the old towels?"

"In the bathroom," the girl answered. "I'll get you one."

Rick turned his head to look at the door just as a girl appeared in it. She froze, gasping.

"It's ok," he said quickly, throwing up a reassuring hand. "I look scary, but I won't hurt you."

"I can't see you, but …" She hesitated and Rick realized that her wide eyes were blind, even as he was swept with an unsettling sense of déjà vu. "I'm not afraid. I just wasn't expecting … a stranger." Her delicate nostrils flared. "Are you bleeding?"

"Yeah. I'm the one who needed the towel."

"Soccer in the lot again?" she asked, sounding exasperated as she moved forward. Rick inched aside to let her kneel in front of a wicker basket that held a stack of towels. She rummaged to the bottom of the pile and came up with a towel that was more hole than cloth. "Niko's lost so much blood there, I think the Red Cross should start collecting it," she said, handing him the rag. "The peroxide's in the brown bottle in the cabinet."

"Thanks." Rick turned on the water and began wiping his face off, uneasily aware that the girl had settled herself on the edge of the tub and was watching him. Or rather listening, or smelling. "Are you Niko's sister?" he asked.

"Yes. What's your name?"

"Rick." He winced as the water stung the deep cut over his eyebrow. "What's yours?"

"Ariadne."

Rick froze in the middle of wringing out the towel, remembering a dark night in downtown Gotham, when a little blind girl had lain quietly in his arms, the blood running freely from her neck. He cast a quick glance over, but she wore a high necked sweater and he couldn't see whether she bore a scar. Surely she couldn't be the same girl.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, sounding curious.

"Not too bad." Rick forced his attention back to the task at hand, pouring the peroxide onto a still dry corner of the towel and then dabbing on his face. "Ouch."

"It always burns," she said comfortingly. "Niko shouts louder than you do. Where do you live?"

"Uh, the north side, I just came over to play soccer. Do you play?" he asked, to keep her from asking exactly where on the north side he lived, and then realized it was a stupid question.

But she surprised him as she scowled and insisted, "I _could_ if Niko would let me sew bells on the ball so I could hear where it was. But he thinks it would be bad for his image."

"Hey Rick, man, you ok?" the object of their conversation stuck his head in the door.

"He's fine now that I'm here to help him," Ariadne said sweetly, "since _someone_ didn't even know where the towels were."

Niko ignored her and squeezed into the tiny room to get a close look at Rick's injuries. "It's still bleeding. You think it needs stitches?"

"I hope not. You have some gauze or something I can put on it until I get home?"

"I think so. Maybe it's in here?" Niko poked vaguely around in the medicine cabinet.

Ariadne huffed loudly. "Idiot, do you live here or not? Try the first aid kit in the kitchen." She led the way and flung open the appropriate drawer. "There."

Niko gave a longsuffering sigh and pulled out the kit. "Here, try this," he suggested, handing over a patch of gauze and some adhesive tape.

Richard went back to the bathroom to use the mirror. He caught wisps of the conversation in the kitchen as he carefully fixed the patch over the cut. Ariadne seemed to be asking questions about him, which Niko answered as briefly as possible. The tenor of the conversation suddenly switched as her brother suddenly pleaded, "No, don't do that, Ari!"

"Why not?" she demanded as Rick came back into the kitchen. "I'm going to ask him and you can't stop me. Will you come to my birthday party?" she asked in the same breath, turning her body to face Rick. "It's next Thursday at four."

Niko grabbed his curly hair in exasperation. "Ari, he doesn't want to come to your party. He doesn't even know you!"

"Well, you won't let me ask any of your friends that I do know. Please?" she added sweetly for Rick's benefit.

"Uh … Sure?" he agreed hesitantly. "I mean, if I'm not supposed be doing anything else."

"Try really hard, ok? I hardly know any boys at all. At least, none that Niko will let me talk to."

"Well, if you wouldn't insist on being nice to the worst jerks in the neighborhood …" Niko launched into what was clearly an old argument, and Rick edged toward the door.

"I'll see you guys next week!" he called, hastily letting himself out, before they could pull him any more deeply into their quarrel.

As Rick rode the train back to the station to pick up his stuff, he thought about the problem of Ariadne. Although one part of his brain still argued that there must be a dozen Ariadnes in Gotham, he was almost positive she was the same one, and it would be easy enough to check the news clippings. But if she was, then he would have to decide whether it was safe to go back.

On the one hand, encounters in and out of costume with the same people were always risky. But on the other, she was blind, they'd only exchanged a couple of sentences, and his voice had completely changed since then. Besides, Bruce met people both as the Bat and as Bruce all the time, and no one had unmasked him yet.

The thought of posing the question to Bruce crossed Rick's mind, but he quickly pushed it away. Surely this was a simple decision he could make on his own. He didn't admit to himself that he didn't want to be told no because he had already decided, no matter what he found out about Ariadne's identity, that he was going back.

* * *

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your presence and your cooperation today. I know that with your support, this new effort to beautify the streets of our great city is bound to be a success." The mayor threw a beaming glance around the table which seated a good number of the most prominent members of Gotham's business community, including its wealthiest, Bruce Wayne, and its newest, Lex Luthor.

The meeting officially over, most of those present clustered around the refreshment table. Bruce slipped his papers into his briefcase and unobtrusively headed for the exit, hoping to escape before anyone cornered him.

"Bruce!" a voice hailed him just as he was slipping out the door.

Bruce manufactured a bright smile. "Lex, how are things coming along at the new place? Hello, Selina," he added, his shifting to Luthor's companion. She smiled in return.

"Couldn't be better, we're right on schedule for both the grand opening, and the pre-opening party. I hope you're still coming."

"Wouldn't miss it," Bruce promised. "Look, I'd love to chat, but I have to make another appointment. I'll see you later." With another quick smile, he headed down the hallway toward the elevator.

City Hall was old and the elevator consequently slow. While he was waiting for the car to rise, the sharp tapping of high heels alerted him to Selina Kyle's approach. "I'm glad you're still standing here. I'd hate to think how long I'd have to wait if you were on your way down," she said dryly, punching the call button twice although it was already lit.

"Don't do that," he warned, "you might confuse it. So you weren't in the mood for Girl Scout cookies?"

"Not when they're coupled with non Fair Trade coffee," she answered righteously.

He laughed, and then the elevator doors finally slid open. "After you."

Selina hit the button for the ground floor, again using the impatient double punch. "I swear the stairs would have been faster."

"And healthier."

"Yet here we stand."

"Yep."

She smiled and was about to speak again when the elevator emitted a piercing shriek and came to a grinding, shuddering halt. Selina looked up at the ceiling. "Tell me this isn't happening."

Bruce reached over and tried various buttons. "I wish I could." He hit the emergency call button, and a buzzer immediately began to sound. Selina winced at the bursts of grating noise.

"I think I prefer the usual elevator music."

Bruce sighed and slid down to the floor, balancing his brief case on his knees. "We may as well get comfortable."

"I refuse to be so pessimistic as to believe in a need to get comfortable." She crossed her arms and glared at the ceiling, impatiently tapping her toe.

Bruce reached over and held down the tip of her shoe. "Could you please stop that? The buzzer's bad enough."

Before she could respond, a voice crackled through a speaker set in the ceiling. "Hey folks, this is Harvey Trent, the maintenance supervisor. I just wanted to let you know that we're working on the problem and should have you out of there in twenty-five or thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes? Are you serious?" Selina demanded, but the speaker remained silent. Sighing in resignation, she sank down, gracefully tucking her knees to the side. "You were right."

"You forget I'm a native Gothamite. So," he quirked his eyebrows at her, "what do you want to do?"

She rolled her eyes. "I feel like I'm living a _Cosmopolitan _quiz. 'You find yourself trapped in a elevator with a billionaire bachelor. Do you a) Make out for the entertainment of the security camera b) Discuss his company's new super secret defense contract which they somehow stole from your boss c) Put him at ease by pretending you're engaged to a Dallas Cowboys linebacker?'"

"A?" Bruce asked hopefully.

Selina smirked. "Maybe next time."

"Before you decide on B, let me warn you that I know absolutely nothing about that contract."

"What a surprise," she said dryly.

"Leaving us with C. Are you engaged to a Cowboy?"

"Even for the sake of putting you at ease, I cannot tell a lie."

"So much for _Cosmopolitan_." Bruce slid his briefcase to the floor so that he could rest his arms on his knees. "Now what?"

"Why do I have to think of everything? Ask me an interesting question."

"Um … What's your favorite breakfast cereal?"

"Blueberry Morning, but I said _interesting_. Something like … If you could steal anything in the world, what would it be?"

"Your heart," Bruce answered, then grinned as she glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. Ok … um … MacGyver's leather jacket."

Selina tilted her head back and addressed the speaker again. "Six and a half billion people on the planet, and I get stuck with the one who wants nothing more than a cheap jacket from a bad eighties show."

"Hey, that show was cool! And you said anything in the world."

"So I did." There was a short pause and then she said, "You're supposed to reciprocate the question. You should say, 'Selina, now that I've revealed my completely asinine ultimate desire, what would _you_ steal if you could steal anything in the world?'"

Bruce laughed. "Ok. What you said."

"I would," she began dreamily, "I would steal Van Gogh's _Starry Night_."

"Seriously?"

She stretched out her hands with her palms upward, the elegant fingers slightly curled. "Van Gogh came as close as anyone to understanding the terrifying power of the universe. Imagine possessing the cosmos in fury, hanging on your wall to terrify you whenever you liked."

"I think … I'll keep my leather jacket."

She lost her dreamy look and flashed him a smile. "Besides, MOMA's security is phenomenal. Imagine the rush of getting past it."

"You want to break into a museum. I'd just like to break out of this elevator." As if on cue, a hopeful sounding pounding began above them. "Great, looks like my wish might come true."

"How nice for you." She shifted, absently tugging her suit skirt to keep it from riding up her legs. Very shapely legs, Bruce noticed, yet again. "Did you hear about that robbery last night?"

"Robbery? Oh, the jewel store. I saw the story in the paper. That was a lot of diamonds."

"Mmmhmm. You know what I think? That it's the same woman who stole the jewels from the casino on New Years."

Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? But they're two completely different kinds of robberies, aren't they?"

"Not really. Different venues, yes, but the same kinds of things were taken. And both were executed with the same daring—almost in plain sight."

"That's a good point. Hey, didn't the paper say something about a costume?"

"Yes, it did. The guard at the jewelry store said it looked something like a cat. You have a problem with costumed criminals in this town, don't you?"

"It's that damn Batman. He draws them like … something."

"Magnets to the north? Bees to honey? Flies to meat?" she offered helpfully.

"Whatever it's like, it's a damn nuisance and bad for business. Every time a new nut shows up, my stock drops," he complained. "But at least this one's a woman. That's something different." Bruce looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling where the sound of pounding was getting more ferocious. "Maybe she and Batman could get together."

"I really don't see that happening. Aren't they working on opposite sides of the law?"

He waved an airy hand. "Details. Besides, it would do him good. The guy is clearly overflowing with sexual frustration."

"How do you figure that?" she asked interestedly.

"Common sense. If your sex life is good, you have better things to do with your nights than running around hitting people. Even for the sake of the law."

Before Selina could reply, there was a final burst of banging above them, followed by an agonized shriek of metal. "Hey, you two ok down there?" a voice called.

"We're fine," Bruce shouted back.

"We've got the shaft doors open, but the car is stuck a little ways down. We're looking for a ladder to get you out," their unknown rescuer explained.

"We've been in here for half an hour and they still haven't found a ladder?" Selina demanded in disbelief. "That's it. Let me stand on your shoulders, Wayne. We're breaking out of here." Slipping off her high heels, she looked at him impatiently.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? What if it shakes loose?"

"Then we get out of here by going down." She stepped onto his shoulders, holding his hands for balance as he slowly stood. "I'm trusting you to be a gentleman."

"I am always a gentleman."

"Add that to the other lies you've told today." Letting go of one of his hands, she pushed at a ceiling panel. It lifted easily and she thrust it aside, then climbed out onto the top of the car. "We're only a few feet from the top. I think I can reach the edge." Her face appeared in the hole. "Pass up my shoes." He did and heard the soft thuds as she tossed them up and out of the shaft.

"Hey!" a startled exclamation came from above. "Hey, lady, get back in the car, you want to kill yourself?"

Selina ignored him and bent back down to ask, "Coming?"

"How? I'm not exactly Michael Jordan." He waved his arms to demonstrate that he couldn't reach the edge of the hole to pull himself up.

She smiled sweetly. "I'll see you at Lex's party, then. We'll talk about that defense contract." Her face disappeared and he heard her calling up the shaft, then thumps on the ceiling as she climbed out. By the time they had found a ladder to let him escape, Selina was gone.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Just wanted to take a minute to thanks all reviewers (you guys are Bat-tastic!), ask you to keep reviewing (to inspire more superlong chapters!), and give a quick update on my academic progress (since it generally has a direct bearing on how much I write). The good news is, I'm no longer stressing out about whether I'll be accepted to any PhD programs, since I have been! The bad news is, I'm now stressing over which offer to take, since I've got more than one (something I wasn't at all sure would happen). However, this is a much better kind of stress than the last, and hopefully will not impede the muse!


	9. January: Crescendo

**A/N** SUMMER IS HERE! And I have the best summer job EVER, where I actually have time to write and read at work! Therefore, I am committing to writing at least 100 pages on this story this summer. I'm not sure how far it will take us, but it will be a long ways from where we currently are.

In other exciting news, say goodbye to bewildering sentence constructions and hello to my fabulous new beta, JadedofMara. Her work on this chapter was excellent, and I look forward to continuing to work with her.

A small note on the plot: I rearranged some of the events in Chapter 8 of this story. You don't have to reread it, just know that Richard's interview with Fox happens on Thursday (rather than Friday) and the soccer game where he bangs up his face now happens on Friday (rather than Thursday).

Also, thank you to those reviewers who have mentioned to me that the scene changes were not indicated. I finally figured out that this site no longer recognizes the lines of dashes that I used to use for dividers, so I'm having to re-upload everything and use their edit function so I can put in their approved lines. It is a PAIN, but I have so far fixed _The Nestling, Monkey See, _and the previous chapters of this story. _Toward a Dark Horizon_ with its many, many chapters and many, many, MANY scene changes still awaits me.

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Chapter 9**

… _It's evident  
__the art of losing's not too hard to master  
__though it may look like (_Write_ it!) like disaster._

_-Elizabeth Bishop_

Richard ducked beneath Bruce's fist and delivered a kick to the back of his left knee, then danced away. Bruce stumbled but swung into the momentum to regain his balance. Soaked with sweat from their heavy sparring, the two separated, circling warily. "Ready to call it quits?" Bruce asked, his breathing slightly quicker than normal.

Richard grinned. "What's the matter, old man? Can't keep …" He broke off with a grunt as Bruce tackled him around the waist and carried them both to the floor.

"You talk too much," Bruce accused, holding his ward immobile. "Never underestimate the old men."

Rick struggled uselessly against the iron grip. "All right, all right, I'm sorry I called you old. I've learned my lesson." He again attempted to free himself, but only hit his face against the mats and groaned in real pain.

Bruce released him and stood up. "You really did a number on yourself."

"Yeah, well, you know, I got involved in the game and forgot to pay attention to the ice."

"Not paying attention can get you killed."

"I know, I know." Rick snatched a towel off the top of the stack and dabbed his face. "Aw man, it's bleeding. If Alfred sees this he's not going to let me go out tonight. Again." The butler had elaborated forcefully on the dangers inherent in playing sidekick while bleeding from the face, canceling Rick's Friday night activities.

"Are you sure you're keeping your extra-curricular image and your P.E. image consistent?"

"Geez, Bruce, I'm not an idiot. And this face isn't exactly going to impress anyone."

"You can say that again. Try to avoid the photographers with that, would you? I can just imagine the weird rumors they're dying to start."

"I'm trying! But it's not easy when they lie in wait outside the school every afternoon. They even have student accomplices."

"Let me guess. It's a girl."

"Amanda. She's driving me crazy."

"Is she pretty?"

"She thinks. Any advice?"

"Tell her she's a pain in the ass. It usually works for me."

"Yeah. After they bludgeon you with the closest blunt object."

"It's worth every bruise," Bruce promised. "Quick and effective … kind of like Alka-Seltzer."

Rick sighed. "I'll think about it."

"How's the homework coming?"

The boy rolled his eyes eloquently. "Done. I didn't exactly have anything else to do last night."

"You could have always called Amanda. Ouch!" He winced as Richard jabbed him beneath the ribs.

* * *

Later that night, Rick stood patiently as Alfred smeared dark grease paint over the thin bandage that now concealed his bruises. The butler was frowning as he worked, still uncertain that the boy was ready to go out, but, to Rick's relief, he remained silent. If anyone had a chance of talking Bruce out of something, it was Alfred.

His makeup job finished, Rick grabbed his cowl and slipped it on, trying not to jar his bandage. He felt guilty over misleading Bruce and Alfred about his injuries; technically he had told nothing but the truth, but he had let them think the infamous soccer game occurred at school. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to keep his new friendship a secret, except that there was a curious relief in being in a place where he wasn't Bruce Wayne's ward, or Robin, or a math genius. He was just Rick, who was pretty good at soccer, and he couldn't help feeling that if anyone else knew about it, it wouldn't be the same.

"Let's go," Batman ordered, and Rick pushed the confusing thoughts away and focused only on tonight, where he was right now, slipping out of Richard's Grayson's mind and into Robin's as easily as he changed into his armor.

"Just surveillance tonight?" he asked, as they drove away from the caverns, not in the Tumbler but in something more discreet.

"Unless we get lucky. She might be there."

They were headed for the North Shore Casino, which was hosting another party, this one to apologize for the unpleasantness on New Year's. Bruce Wayne had turned down his invitation, despite a personal call from the owner, as had several other important guests, and it was clear that the casino must be getting worried. The New Year's fiasco on top of the imminent reopening of the competition meant it was likely Gotham would take its gaming across town, at least for a while. But when your income was in the millions every night, a "while" meant inconceivable profit loss.

Batman's guess was that the cat woman wouldn't be able to resist the lure of hitting the casino a second time. The very nature of the event as well as the increased security was practically a personal challenge to her ingenuity. However, even if he had guessed right, actually catching her coming out of the enormous edifice was unlikely, since they had no idea of how she'd entered or exited the last time. Still, she seemed to like rooftops, and planning an evening of quiet surveillance had pacified Alfred.

Batman had chosen two likely rooftop exit routes that had lines of sight on each other and good surveillance of the casino proper. The silent watchers settled on neighboring buildings, waiting and listening to the traffic of the nightlife below them. Just before midnight, Batman got up to investigate a ruckus in the alley below. Robin remained in position, scanning the rooftops.

Across the city, the bells of the cathedral began to toll midnight, and Robin absently counted the strokes, shrugging more deeply into his cloak. These long winter vigils got cold. The bells ceased, and he again swept his field of vision, watching for the wrongly shaped shadow—and there it was. An almost imperceptible figure glided toward him through the murky night. Raising his radio link, Robin breathed, "She's here," although he knew there would be no time for help to arrive. This one was his.

Tensed and ready to spring, he waited as she leapt lightly over the narrow divide that separated the two buildings and ran straight toward him. He remained motionless, hoping she would not see him, and then, as she swept by like a dark breeze, he sprang. His fingers closed on slick material and then slipped as she twisted gracefully away, hardly breaking her stride. He pelted after her, and she was fast, but he was fast too, faster than the Batman, even.

He closed the gap when she made the mistake of clambering into the structure of billboard, running beneath and all but flying up the other side to cut off her escape. They faced each other balanced on top of the thousand times magnified face of the actress Bruce Wayne had escorted to a party last week, a fifty story drop on one side.

"Well," she murmured, "the cat and the Robin are up in a tree. How will this end, do you think? Fly away little bird, before you get your tail feathers plucked."

Below them, he saw the dark form of Batman closing in. A moment of distraction and they would have her. "Are you going to do the plucking?" he asked suggestively, edging toward her. "I could be down with that."

She hissed in surprise or amusement, and danced back, apparently unaware of the dark pursuer below her. "Don't flirt with more than you can handle, fledgling."

Batman aimed his grapple gun up for a quick ascent, a shot exploded, and Robin felt a mighty blow hammer into his chest. _But the gun is silent_, he thought, as he fell over the edge.

* * *

Trevor and Barbara had a reputation as the couple who went to the late show, but they had never actually been to one. So although Barbara had told her father she was going to the eleven o'clock showing of a new horror flick, she didn't actually know what she would be doing, until Trevor picked her up on Saturday night.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "And why?"

"I got a tip that if we hang around the casino tonight, we might see something interesting."

"To do with our case?"

He shrugged. "Who knows?"

"Where'd you get the tip?"

"Wolfe," he answered promptly. A little too promptly.

Barbara's eyes narrowed as she examined his profile, periodically illuminated by the passing streetlights. Trevor was an excellent liar, but over the years she'd learned the signs that gave him away. He was lying now.

She transferred her gaze to the window and tried to figure out why. Trevor lied to her regularly, but usually it was about something in his personal life he didn't want her to know about, and thought he could get away with, as though she were blind as a bat. Not that the bats in this town had vision problems.

But he almost never lied to her about work, and when he did, it meant they were about to land in deep trouble. Barbara's stomach tensed, but she fought to keep her posture relaxed, not wanting Trevor to guess she was on to him. She would have to stay extra alert tonight, ready for whatever was coming at her. She trusted her partner, except when he lied to her.

Trevor drove confidently and swung them into a church parking lot, two blocks from the casino. He picked up a backpack and silently led the way to a nearby office complex, where he picked the lock to a side entrance. She assumed he had already bribed a watchman to disable the alarm.

"I thought we were staking out the casino," she hissed as they slipped inside.

"We are. But not from the ground."

Half an hour and forty flights of stairs later, even Trevor couldn't talk without gasping. They entered a deserted office and settled in front of the window, which offered a sweeping view of the casino's roof, two stories below. Barbara fought to calm her breathing, which sounded thunderous in the darkness, and accepted the high powered night-vision binoculars Trevor handed her.

They sat silent and motionless for an hour, watching the rooftops through their lenses. As the bells across the city began to strike midnight, Barbara dropped her glasses and rubbed her eyes wearily. The only thing moving was snow in the wind, and her vision was beginning to play tricks on her.

"I have to be home in an hour," she reminded, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the window sill.

"I know," Trevor muttered, leaning across her to grab his backpack. He let his arm linger over her shoulders.

"Trevor," she muttered warningly, and suddenly jerked upright. "Look!"

"Where?" he snapped, ramming his own glasses to his eyes.

"To the west. It's …"

"Robin and Batman," he breathed, as he focused in on the chase. "But who is she?"

"I bet she's the burglar who robbed the casino before," Barbara answered, tension making her voice high and taut.

Batman was considerably behind, and she focused on the lead figures as they sped across the rooftops, moving so lightly and gracefully they barely seemed to touch the roofs at all. Half a minute and they disappeared behind a large billboard, then reappeared on top of it. Barbara's grip was white knuckled on the glasses as she twisted them up to the highest resolution, straining to see the details of the stand off. Robin's face was toward her, and she saw his mouth move as he spoke, saw him dance forward along the narrow edge of the board. And then he jerked, his mouth open in surprise, and fell slowly, gracefully, over the edge.

Barbara's heart stopped, and she clenched the glasses so hard she thought they might shatter, as she waited for him to reappear. But he didn't. _Where's Batman_? she thought frantically, but he was gone, as was, she suddenly realized, the cat burglar. The rooftops were again deserted. Slowly, she lowered her binoculars and looked over at Trevor. His face was white in the dim light, and he looked as shocked as she felt.

"Someone shot him," Barbara said blankly. Then she sprang from her chair and ran to the door. "We have to help!"

"Barbara, wait!" Trevor called behind her, but she was already pounding down the hall to the stairs. He caught up with her ten flights down, and they exited the building together. Barbara started to run toward the casino, but Trevor caught her shoulder. "Barbara, I don't think there's anything we can do."

"We have to try," she said tightly. "Stop wasting time."

He started to shake his head, then grabbed her hand. "Come on."

They raced down the apparently deserted street together, past the glimmering front of hotels, past the blazing neon lights of the casino, until they stood beneath the billboard, so high they could only glimpse it when they looked straight up. "This way." Barbara darted into a dark gap between the buildings and stopped short. There was a dumpster and a stack of crates, but it was obvious the alley was deserted. Barbara stared around, feeling dazed, trying to understand. "He should have fallen here."

Trevor pulled out a light and went to check behind the dumpster, while Barbara continued to stare helplessly into the shadows. Feeling a sudden creeping feeling on the back of her neck, she jerked around and looked up wildly, but all she saw were shadows.

"There's nothing here," Trevor said, coming back.

"He has to be here," she insisted.

"He's not. Maybe he caught himself on the way down."

"But somebody _shot_ him!"

"I know. Barbara, we have to go." He picked up her hand again, and she reluctantly let him lead her, but she couldn't help looking back one more time as they left.

Halfway home, she started shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Trevor swung the car into an empty lot and parked, then pulled her into his arms. Gratefully, she buried her face against his chest and wept.

* * *

He saw the shot explode against Richard's chest, saw him arc backwards and fall. In that moment he was frozen, filled with a dark sense of inevitable doom, and then instinct took over and he hurtled forward, knowing all the time that he would be too late. He crouched at the edge of the roof, poised to dive downward, and checked. Catwoman dangled a few feet below the edge, one hand impossibly gripping the wall, the other latched around Richard's arm. _Robin,_ he corrected himself at last, as he swung down beside them. _Robin's arm_.

The moment Batman grabbed onto his sidekick, she jerked her hand out of the wall with a piercing rasp of metal on concrete and dropped. He distantly registered the metallic boom as a fire escape broke her fall partway down, but his attention was on Robin, who suddenly gasped and grabbed the cable. "I'm ok," he wheezed, shifting to take his own weight, then unhooking his own grapple gun so that they hung on separate cables.

Batman reached over and ran his gloved fingers over a set of fresh grooves, where something had cut through the concrete like butter. _Claw marks_. The weight of two falling bodies must have put incredible pressure on whatever device she used to stop and hold them, and he carefully probed the crevice at the bottom of the grooves. _There_. The shard of metal was embedded too firmly to be removed with his fingers, so he unhooked a tiny pair of pliers from his belt and twisted it free, removing another chunk of concrete in the process. Securing both pliers and evidence, he turned to his partner. "Let's go."

-break-

_Sub-Saharan Africa, 11 years previously_

_Bruce lifted the body, laying his fingers on its neck to double check that the pulse had, indeed, stopped. Then he began methodically to strip the few pitiful garments it wore before dropping it back to the ground. You had to think of them as it, or else the enormity of the desecration made your eyes blur and your fingers stiffen so that you could not be efficient. And if you weren't efficient, then somebody else would beat you to the prize._

_Later that night, he added his bundle of rags—you couldn't really call it clothing—to the growing pile and settled into his usual corner of the hut. His companions sidled away, casting him dark, suspicious glances. They could not trust him because he was white. They tolerated him because he was big and had a long knife tucked beneath his belt, and he could scare other scavengers away from their territory._

_He had been here almost a week, and he was more than ready to move on. This, he felt, was finally the utter bottom of the criminal underworld—those who preyed on the dead to continue their own living death, in a place where rags assumed monumental importance because there was literally nothing else. Unless, of course, you joined one of the militias where they would give you bullets, but not food. Even the despair had a starved quality here. But there was no mystery, nothing more to be learned. He had to escape before he gave in and became one of the living dead himself. He would stay one more day._

_The next day was Monday, and instead of going out, the three of them gathered around a chipped plastic tub with a few inches of water in the bottom. They had to wash the clothes, the other two men explained, to rid them of disease and the evil spirits that might cling after violent death. Bruce watched them frantically scrubbing the cloth in the filthy water and wondered what they were really trying to wash away ..._

* * *

Alfred gently pushed open the doorway of the master bedroom and sighed when he saw the stripped bed. Water sloshed in the bathroom, and through the open door he could see Bruce bent over the tub, intently washing his sheets. Sighing again, the butler went in search of fresh linen and remade the bed before attempting to persuade his unconscious employer back into it.

These sleep walking episodes, which had begun shortly after Richard's initiation into the world of Batman, had become a regular event at the Manor, recurring whenever something happened to severely upset Bruce, usually involving his ward. And although a few wet sheets were harmless enough, they worried Alfred deeply, perhaps because Bruce himself would remember nothing about the incident in the morning. If his inward distress could produce these physical manifestations so completely beyond his control, then Alfred was worried about what might be next.

With his employer and one time ward safely back in bed, Alfred went down to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He supposed that he should be grateful Bruce was sleeping at all, instead of down in the caves, where he had spent the night before and most of the day.

The kettle whistled and Alfred steeped his leaves, then, cup in hand, allowed his wandering footsteps to take him to the study and down the lift. In the caves, he flipped the switch that flooded them with light, causing an unwary bat to shriek in surprise and flutter uneasily before retreating into the deep shadows above the lights.

"_Robin's been shot,"_ Bruce had said matter-of-factly, pulling off his cowl, and Alfred could still feel the icy horror that had filled his chest at the words. Bruce never called Richard 'Robin,' but Alfred didn't realize the significance of that until later.

Then the boy climbed out under his own power and said calmly, _"The suit stopped it."_

It had, barely. The large caliber shot had punched through all but a hair thin layer of Kevlar. They had recovered the bullet, and Bruce had begun to process it while Alfred examined the black bruise that covered half of Richard's chest and made sure no ribs had been cracked. While Alfred worked, the other two carried on a conversation about whether the shooter had been waiting in ambush, or whether some nut with a rifle had gotten lucky.

"_Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was meant for her,"_ Richard had suggested. _"How would anyone know we were going to be there?"_

"_Maybe someone knew we would go after her."_

"_Why do you think she dove after me?"_

"_Even a jewel thief can have a good heart,"_ Bruce had responded jokingly, and Alfred thought he would scream with frustration that neither of them acknowledged what made his own hands tremble even though Richard was safe. But he knew how hard Bruce worked to conceal his emotional turmoil from his ward, and so he had held his own frustration in check, ordering Richard to bed in only slightly firmer tones than usual and tucking him in with ice packs and aspirin.

Alfred had returned downstairs, expecting to find Bruce's cool demeanor replaced with the frantic worry he must be feeling. Maybe he would even be physically sick as sometimes happened when Richard's safety slipped from his control. But Bruce had been still sitting in front of the microscope, peering into it intently while the computer ran digital images of the bullet through the police databases to see if they contained a match.

"_The cat lost a claw tonight,"_ he said calmly, when Alfred appeared. _"I think it's a titanium alloy, something I've never seen before. We may have to turn it over to Fox."_ He had pushed the microscope toward Alfred, who refused to bend over it but pinned his eyes on the other man.

"_Master Wayne …"_

The look Bruce turned on him had been detached, perhaps a little impatient, and Alfred suddenly realized that although Richard had been the one shot, it was Bruce Wayne who had failed to return home.

So neither of them had gone to bed, because Batman never went to bed, and Alfred could not bear to let him sit alone. They worked to figure the position of the shooter and to identify the titanium claw. Richard came down the next day and jimmied with their math, apparently not recognizing anything out of the ordinary as he cheerfully worked to place the gun that had almost killed him. He had disappeared upstairs after a while, claiming a school project, leaving the two downstairs wrapped in silence, until his voice unexpectedly sounded over the intercom. _"Hey Bruce, there's a chick on the phone. I told her you weren't available, but she thinks you'll talk to her anyway. Her name's Selina."_

It was with both relief and uneasiness that Alfred saw Bruce's expression relax into something human for the first time since he had come home. _"I'll take it in the study."_

* * *

Lex Luthor was idly running over the keys of the grand piano in one of the lounges in his newly refinished casino, enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon, when a rich whiff of perfume warned him he was no longer alone. "Hello, Selina."

"Hello, Lex." She slipped onto the bench beside him and lightly covered one of his hands with her own, forcing him to stop playing.

"Shall we do a duet for the opening night? It'll be a hit," he promised.

"I don't play."

Her undertone of seriousness caused him to look at her curiously. "Why do I get the feeling we aren't talking about the piano anymore?"

She gently stroked the length of his long, pale fingers. "Lex, when you decided to acquire this place, you told me that there were … special problems that came along with it. You asked me to take care of those problems, and I said that I would. But only if you let me do it my way." Her sharp nails suddenly dug into the soft web of skin between his fingers. "You interfered last night, and you did it very crudely and unimaginatively. In fact, you nearly lost me the game."

He didn't flinch but regarded her calmly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She leaned over so that her shoulder pressed against his as she looked into his eyes. "You don't own the world yet, Mr. Luthor, so let me do what you pay me to do. It's safer that way."

"I'll try to remember that." She smiled and lifted her hand. He resumed playing, and she stood to go. "Selina."

"Yes?"

"Call your tame billionaire and make sure he's coming to the party. That defense contract isn't the only thing he's got that I want."

"Yes, Lex," she said sweetly.

He glanced at her sharply, but she only smiled and left. In the suite that had been assigned to her, she dropped gracefully into a chair and picked up the phone, dialed a number from memory.

"Hey," a boyish voice on the other end of the line answered.

"I'd like to speak to Bruce Wayne, please."

There was a momentary pause, and then the boy said in a bored tone, "He's not available."

"Tell him Selina Kyle is calling, and see if he's still unavailable."

There was a disgusted sigh on the other end of the line, and then she heard a clunk as he set the phone down. It was a full three minutes before there was the click of an extension transfer and Bruce's voice came over the line. "Selina?"

"So the elusive Mr. Wayne is available after all."

"Well, you know how it is."

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"My Sunday afternoon nap is on top of the priority list." He yawned for effect.

"Bruce, you interrupted your beauty sleep for me? How flattering."

She could almost hear his smile in his voice. "I hope you're going to make it worth my while."

"I was just calling to ask if you would prefer a Jacuzzi or a full range of gaming systems in your hotel room."

"Hotel room?"

"Bruce. You promised you'd come to Lex's party next weekend. He'll be so disappointed if you don't."

"Yes, but will you be disappointed?"

"Jacuzzi or gaming systems, Mr. Wayne?"

"Which one is closer to your room?"

She laughed. "That shouldn't make any difference to you."

"I just want to make sure I have a friend in shouting distance. I hate being at a party where I don't know anyone."

"Let's say they're equally distant."

He sighed. "I also hate sitting in a Jacuzzi alone. Would you come sit in it with me?"

"I'll put you down for the gaming systems."

"That's cold, Selina, very cold."

"You won't have time to sit in a hot tub anyway. You'll be too busy losing millions to the house."

"How can I resist an invitation like that?" he asked sulkily, and then in an oddly plaintive tone he added, "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"You sound tired. Sweet dreams, Bruce. I'll see you on Thursday."

"I'll dream about Thursday then," he said, and hung up.

Selina gently laid down the phone, an unconscious little smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

* * *

After Bruce had gone to answer the phone, Alfred waited a few minutes and went upstairs himself. Bruce was stretched full length on the leather sofa in the study, asleep, his hand resting on the cordless phone.

* * *

Richard checked his Bailey email account approximately sixty times before he finally found a message waiting from Barbara. It read simply, _Monday 3:30-5. Thursday, same, if necessary_. She hadn't even signed her name, but Rick read it repeatedly anyway, before he caught himself thinking it was a good sign she'd just put "if necessary" and not "only if necessary." He forced himself to log off and start reading ahead for English.

Monday morning had never looked so good, despite the fact that one side of his face was covered in scabs and turning yellow, and he couldn't draw a deep breath without twinges of pain. Amanda screeched with horror when she climbed on the bus, stopping in the aisle to coo with concern since Rick had adopted a new seatmate (one of the most devoted of Bailey's many serious students, who actually walked down the aisle and got off the bus without taking his eyes off his page). In fact, Rick managed to avoid Amanda all day, inviting himself into a new group at lunch. They received him readily and eagerly asked about his battered face. He amused the table by continually switching his story from a mugging to a riot to a mass prairie dog escape at the zoo, and by the end of the period felt that he'd taken an important step toward widening his circle of acquaintances. Despite a careful survey, he failed to spot David Stern anywhere in the cafeteria.

Rick's math strategy—keeping his head down and his mouth shut—was by now a well established pattern. He had also been getting perfect scores on his homework, so he wasn't certain why Ms. Simpkins still shot him the occasional sharp glance. After finishing his in class work for the day, he started creating his usual puzzle of the day for Alex and wiggled his eyebrows at Carmen Leo whenever she glanced in his direction. She still refused to look him in the eye when he said hi at the beginning of class, but apparently even ultra-shy Carmen couldn't resist the lure of massive bruising and abrasions. Rick actually thought he heard her giggle by the end of class and made one more face at her as he shoved his paper onto the stack and sent it down the row.

And, for the first time ever, Barbara voluntarily spoke to him. "What happened to _you_?" she asked, quirking her eyebrows as though she disbelieved what she saw.

Every one of Rick's funny lines evacuated his head. "I slipped," he said briefly, pulling out his Life Skills textbook and flipping open to the "Real Life Budgeting" chapter. _Better anyway,_ he consoled himself as Barbara nodded disinterestedly and turned to fish in her bag for a pen. _Keep it cool and don't look like you're trying too hard._ Then he mentally slapped himself on the head, remembering that he was not supposed to be worrying about this.

As he had promised, Mr. Davis assigned their first partners project—creating a real life budget ("Good to know you're working with the text, Mr. D.!" Zorello called from the back when he got the assignment sheet). Barbara's lip curled in distaste as she scanned the details of the project, and Rick had to agree that it sounded a little cheesy. But anything that gave him an hour and a half of one-on-one time with Barbara automatically made it onto his list of top ten favorite activities.

_Keep it cool_, he reminded himself again at the end of class. "See you at three-thirty, then?" he asked Barbara as she stood and swung her bag over her shoulder.

She nodded. "In the library."

Alfred had forged a doctor's note, excusing Rick from gym for a week because of his "soccer" accident, to keep his bullet-inflicted bruise hidden from the locker room eyes until it had a chance to heal a little. He had to sit on the edge of the court and take notes as his fellow students ran through basketball drills. After class, he handed his notes to the coach and took off for the door as fast as he could without looking like someone who should not be excused from gym, but Hal caught him before he could escape.

"Where's the fire?"

Rick glanced around to make certain the Tren was nowhere in sight and whispered, "Life Skills study session."

Hal assumed a knowing look. "Don't worry, I saw him leave already. Don't let her make you do all the work, ok?"

Rick opened his mouth to indignantly defend Barbara's work ethic, and suddenly realized he actually knew nothing about it. Maybe she _was_ the type to let her partner do all the work, although he thought it was more likely she wouldn't let him do anything at all for fear of wrecking their grade. He shut his mouth without saying anything, but continued to think as he left the gym and headed for the library. It amazed him to realize how very little he knew about Barbara Gordon. Some people, Amanda for instance, wore everything that was inside on the outside. But Barbara, _and David_, he thought as he caught a glimpse of the guy swinging down the maintenance hallway, were more like safes—you had to know the combination before you could get in. He hesitated as he passed the hall entrance, betting that David was on his way to his secret lair in the basement, but there was no way he could both check on that and be on time to meet Barbara. _Bruce says keep school work first_, he thought righteously, and kept going.

Barbara was already settled at a table near the computers, her textbook and class notes out, along with the assignment sheet. "I've divided up the work," she said shortly, pushing a piece of notebook paper toward him before he had even pulled out a chair. "I've also divided our income into the percentages suggested by the book, so start looking for apartments between these figures."

He had hoped they would spend a few minutes talking over the assignment, maybe complaining about its stupidity, but Barbara seemed tense. She was paler than usual and had shadows beneath her eyes, which, of course, only emphasized their brilliant green. _Maybe she and the Tren had a fight_, he thought hopefully, and then mentally slapped himself. _In your dreams. Get to work, Grayson._

Logging in to his student account on one of the computers, he began looking up the Web sites listed on the assignment sheet. The sound of rattling paper caught his attention, and he glanced over at the printer with new interest. There were two identical ones by the student computers and another by the circulation desk. The same machines adorned every classroom and the administrative offices. The one with the defective 'e', however, was one of these two—accessible to every student, faculty, and staff. It didn't serve to narrow down the police's field of suspects, but it did help, Rick found, to have a physical point of reference for the elusive killer. _He was here. He comes here regularly. He picks paper up from that machine_.

"Richard Grayson."

Rick cringed as his math teacher's sharp voice sounded behind him. "Hey, Miss Simpkins," he said uncertainly, craning his neck to look up at her.

"May I have a word with you?" she asked in a tone that made it clear the question was not a request.

"Uh, sure." Rick shoved back from the computer and stood to follow her over to a deserted corner. He caught sight of Barbara scowling at him and writhed with embarrassment.

"Richard, would you kindly tell me what this is?" Ms. Simpkins pulled a piece of paper from the folder she held and handed it to him.

In dismay, Rick recognized the puzzle he had written during class that day. "Ms. Simpkins, I'm so sorry! I must have turned this in instead of my answers. They're probably in my bag …"

"I didn't ask you to explain how I got it," she interrupted. "I asked what it was."

"It's a game," he muttered, wondering if she could kick him out of the class for not turning in the work.

"A game?" she repeated dubiously.

"Yeah, you have to guess what picture these equations will make on a graph before plotting them out."

"Pictures. On a graph," she repeated.

"Well, you know. They're not exact pictures. Alex is pretty good a guessing though. It usually takes him about thirty seconds."

"And who is Alex?"

"My tutor. Alex Peaceable. He's in Colombia doing research, so I'm checking out the school to see if I like …" He trailed off as he realized her stare had changed from sharp to simply odd.

"You wouldn't, by any chance, mean the same Dr. Peaceable who just published on convex quadratic optimization in _AOR_, would you?"

Rick shrugged. "I think so. He hasn't worked on that stuff for a while, but it takes a long time for the journal to print the article. Did you read it?"

"I try to keep up with current research, although I admit much of it is beyond my reach. Richard, if you're studying under Dr. Peaceable, would you mind telling me why on earth you're in my class?" She sounded half dazed and half indignant.

"Bruce told them I had a tutor, but the school said I had to take a math class. So I guess that's why."

"Bruce told them you had a tutor," she echoed, shaking her head. "No wonder you were so confused that first day."

Ms. Simpkins seemed to think she had found an answer, but Rick felt like his confusion was only getting worse. He glanced back over to where Barbara was scribbling furiously in her notebook. "Uh, Ms. Simpkins, do you need to ask me any more questions? I kind of have a lot of studying to do."

She shook her head, still staring at him bemusedly. "No, except … May I keep this?" She reached for the puzzle and he relinquished the sheet.

"It's not a very good one," he said anxiously. "I mean, I could write a better one for you if you want …"

"Oh, no, this will be fine. Thank you, Richard."

Returning to his seat, Rick started speed typing to make up for lost time, pushing the incident out of his mind, since Ms. Simpkins didn't seem upset. By the time he'd compiled a list of possible apartments, Barbara had plotted out living expenses and insurance premiums. The librarian flicked the lights to let them know it was almost closing time, and Barbara abruptly shut her book and gathered her papers.

"Are we meeting Thursday?" Rick asked, without much hope.

"No, we got a lot done. I think we can work independently and finish up next Monday."

"See you later," Rick sighed at her departing back.

* * *

Gordon flipped onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling of his room. If he turned on his light or got up to wander the house, Jane would catch him and scold him for not taking care of himself, then insist on fixing him hot milk. Gordon's mustache grimaced in revulsion, and he rolled back over onto his side. He was too worried to sleep.

In the first place, he was increasingly concerned about his daughter. When Barbara had come home from her Saturday night with Trevor, it was obvious she had been crying. Gordon had asked what was wrong and gotten a muffled "Nothing," as she brushed past him and hurried upstairs. His brief hope that she had broken up with Trevor was quashed Monday morning when he picked her up for school and hugged her tightly before she got in the car. But from the way she was dragging around the house, she was obviously upset about something, even if she wouldn't talk about it with her old dad. And then there was the shopping trip coming up on Friday. The Valentines' dance at Bailey was just under three weeks away, and Barbara wanted a new dress. Jane had promised to take her to the Gladelands Super Sale happening that Friday, but a emergency appendectomy in her bridge club had thrust her into hostess duties, leaving Gordon with the task of escorting his daughter, a task he was eager to deny Trevor but reluctant to take up himself because he _hated_ sales at Gladelands. And so he had complained about it to Sarah, who promptly offered to take Barbara herself. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. His daughter had been less than thrilled when he broke the news to her, but he had offered to double whatever she was planning to spend on the dress, convinced that a little shopping time was what was needed to break the ice between Sarah and Barbara, but at one a.m., he wasn't so sure.

And then, of course, there were those problems at work. Between the cat burglar and the riddle murderer, the police department's image was taking a beating, and Loeb was breathing heavily down his neck. The commissioner wanted him to focus all forces on finding his granddaughter's killer, but the second casino robbery Saturday night had forced him to divide his strength. He knew the killer was out there, waiting to strike again. The only question was when. It had already been more than twice as long than time between the first two murders, and Gordon had begun to wonder if the psycho was waiting for another major holiday. _I doubt he'll be able to pass up Valentine's Day. Barbara's going to the Valentine's dance at Bailey. The killer's connected to Bailey. Maybe he'll go to the dance. Maybe he'll kill Trevor. Maybe he'll kill Barbara. Maybe … Maybe … Maybe …_

His cell phone rang, the old fashioned jangle cutting into his exhausted whirl of thought. Picking it up, he glanced at the caller ID. _O'Hara._ "Hello?"

"Hello, chief. Sorry for waking you up."

He paused and Gordon's stomach clenched. _This isn't going to be good._ "What's going on?"

"It's Commissioner Loeb, sir. He's been murdered. And there's another riddle."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Thank you for reading! Thank you for not hating me for being a graduate student and not writing much during the past year! (By the way, I am moving to Texas at the end of the summer to attend a really fabulous PhD program!) And now, since I'm sure you are all dying to get on with your review writing, I shall cease and desist with the promise to see you at a not very distant update!


	10. January: Measures

**A/N **I just don't even want to talk about it. I'm not giving up on my hundred page goal, though. I need some smaller goals along the way, so my next one is to get another chapter up before I go see Dark Knight on Friday. WOOHOO!

Also, I'm aware that this chapter's choppy in spots, but the beta's unavailable, and it's been way, way too long since the last update.

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Chapter 10**

_Well-behaved women seldom make history.  
-Laura Thatcher Ulrich_

**Dark Knight's Detractors Dying in Droves**  
_This morning, events in Gotham took a terrifying new turn when Commissioner Loeb was found shot in his home. Jessica Garcia, the housekeeper, found the body when she heard a noise in the ground floor study and went to investigate.  
High sources in the GCPD have revealed that the Commissioner's murder may be related to that of journalist Georgia Stern earlier this month, and to that of G.J. Osmond, cartoonist for the Gotham Globe. All three victims were outspoken opponents of Batman. No comment on this has been released from those sections of the police department affiliated with the masked crusader._

"AKA Chief James Gordon," Sarah said flatly, tossing the paper on the desk. She looked angry and Gordon sighed inwardly. Sarah had become increasingly outspoken about her dislike of the Bat's methods and Gordon's dependence on him.

"What do you want me to say, Sarah?"

"I don't know, James, but you're going to have to say something. The press is waiting for a 'comment' from 'sections of the police department affiliated with the masked crusader.'" She left, shutting the door to his office with unnecessary force.

He knew that her anger stemmed from worry for him, but he would have appreciated her support right now. She was right about the press—and he would have to figure out what to tell the mayor, whom he was meeting in less than an hour.

He hadn't slept since receiving O'Hara's call, and at the moment he was feeling every one of his forty-nine years. Rubbing his eyes, he put his glasses back on and once again pulled the crime scene photos toward him.

The pictures showed Loeb slumped behind his desk in his home office. There was a cloak of stiff brown feathers draped around his shoulders, and a plastic yellow beak was secured to his head with an elastic band. Taped to the end of the beak was the latest riddle:

_I am a merry creature,  
In pleasant time of year,  
As in but certain seasons,  
I sing that you can hear:  
And yet I'm made a by-word,  
A very perfect mock;  
Compared to foolish persons,  
And silliest of all folk._

The answer, the forensic team had told him (and his own quick Google search had confirmed) was a cuckoo bird, hence the beak and the feathers. The sound that had attracted the housekeeper was a small speaker hooked to a chip with a sound bite, probably cannibalized from a cheap cuckoo clock and wired to endlessly repeat the fake bird call.

The house alarm had been disabled and one of the study windows broken from the outside—clearly the point of entry, although the killer hadn't left any other helpful forensic evidence such fingerprints, footprints, or DNA samples. The gun was the same one used in the Georgia Stern murder.

What bothered Gordon the most was the fact that the killer had again told them who the next victim would be and they had completely overlooked it. Instead of recognizing the obvious—the killer had murdered Loeb's granddaughter before moving on to Loeb himself—they had run all over town chasing the anonymous, and they now knew innocuous, cane. But what was obvious now hadn't looked obvious at the time, and Gordon was afraid the same thing would happen again. He was sure the Riddler had given them the name of the next victim, and with each police failure, his own sense of guilt grew greater. They knew the killer's M.O., so why couldn't he have saved Loeb?

That the was the question he was certain the mayor was going to ask as, forty-five minutes later, he sat in City Hall, waiting for his appointment. Precisely on time, the door to the inner office swung open, and the mayor, accompanied by his top PR man, stepped out. "Chief Gordon, thank you so much for coming," he said with unexpected warmth, shaking hands and ushering Gordon into the office. Alone, Gordon was relieved to see. He had expected to have the mayor's people breathing down his neck for the duration.

The mayor sat down behind the desk and leaned forward in a confidential manner. "Where are we on the investigation?"

Gordon related the facts as succinctly as he could, aware that while that mayor was attempting to pay attention, there was something else on his mind. "And finally, sir, I'd like to say that despite my personal differences with Commissioner Loeb, I deeply regret and feel personally responsible for his death. If we'd interpreted the evidence correctly—"

The mayor waved his hand dismissively, cutting Gordon off. "Contrary to what you are obviously expecting, I am not here to berate you for the death of Commissioner Loeb. Tragic though it is, I know that the police are already doing everything in their power to apprehend this madman. The matter I have to discuss with you now is related, but in my private, not my public capacity."

Gordon got a sinking feeling in his gut.

"The facts will undoubtedly surface in the course of the investigation, so I'd rather say it to you up front. Commissioner Loeb and … my wife …"

"Were having an affair?" Gordon finished wearily.

"_Had_ an affair," the mayor corrected stiffly. "It ended two months ago, and Lila and I have been in counseling. Obviously, since Loeb was murdered by our serial killer, the … his connection to my wife can have no bearing on the case, and there will be no need to make anything public."

_Peachy_, Gordon thought sourly. One more complication to foul the case up. "We'll do our best to protect everyone's privacy, of course."

The mayor frowned. "I need more than your best. I don't have to tell you the adverse affect this will have on my reelection campaign next year if it reaches the media. Need I remind you that I have always been a strong supporter of you and Batman?"

That was true, although Gordon suspected the mayor's motives had a lot more to do with voting blocks than personal convictions. "I have always appreciated your support, sir."

"Good." Apparently satisfied, the mayor leaned back in his chair. "Now for a more pleasant topic. Let's talk about how quickly we can move you into Loeb's office."

"What!" Gordon exploded.

"I'm appointing you acting Commissioner, for the time being at least."

"No. No way," Gordon protested, shaking his head. "That's a politician's job. I'm a cop."

"Be reasonable, Gordon. Who else am I going to put in there?"

Gordon opened his mouth to supply a name, any name, but his mind went blank.

The mayor nodded knowingly. "You see? Clearly, you're the only man remotely capable of leading the force during this dark time." He stood, glancing at his watch. "Unfortunately, we'll have to iron out the details later, we're making a press release on the front steps in two minutes."

"We?" Gordon asked weakly.

"Of course. The jackals are hungry, and I need my new Commissioner to help fend them off." He clapped a friendly hand on Gordon's shoulder and urged him toward the door.

A painful half hour later, during which he succeeded in telling the press almost nothing, Gordon retreated into the safety of his precinct office. But instead of the breather he'd been hoping for, he found a grim faced O'Hara waiting for him.

"What's happened?" Gordon asked.

"Well, sir, it's … about cuckoos."

"Cuckoos?"

"What they stand for. We call someone a cuckoo if we think they're crazy, right? _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ and all that."

"Yeah, I saw the movie." Gordon leaned against the edge of his desk, bracing himself.

"But they didn't always mean that. See, cuckoo birds lay eggs in other birds' nests and let them raise the young as their own, so it used to be that a cuckoo was another name for adulterer."

"You know about the mayor's wife," Gordon supplied, relieved that no new disaster had fallen on his head.

But O'Hara looked blank. "What?"

"The mayor just told me his wife and Loeb had an affair, wants us to keep it out of the press … but that wasn't what you were going to tell me," he finished in resignation. "Go on."

"When the M.E. undressed the body, she found women's wedding rings in his pockets."

Gordon nodded understandingly. "What do you want to bet one of them belongs to Mrs. Mayor?"

"It's possible, sir, we haven't identified them all yet. But there's one you need to see."

Gordon accepted the gold band O'Hara held out and looked at it curiously. It was a very simple circlet, with no ornamentation or identifying marks on the outside. Tilting it so the light reflected on the inside, he spotted an inscription and squinted to read the tiny words.

_Always, James and Barbara_

* * *

Rick sat again with his new lunch group on Tuesday. Everything went well until Amanda appeared at his elbow. He'd deliberately sat with his back to Hal's table (where she'd become a resident) so he wouldn't have to avoid her inviting glances, but clearly that had been a strategical error. _Never turn your back on the enemy_.

"Hey, Rick," she breathed.

"Hey," he muttered, aware that everyone else at the table was staring.

"What's up?"

He shrugged. "Not much."

She rolled her eyes. "I know! January is the slowest month ever. At least Valentine's Day is coming up so we have something to look forward to." And then, as the though it has just occurred to her she asked brightly, "Have you asked anyone to the dance yet?"

"Uh … I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, it's still three weeks away," Rick stammered, suddenly panicked.

"Three weeks isn't very long, but I guess you still don't know very many people. But don't worry. At Bailey, the girls ask the guys just as much as the guys ask the girls."

"Oh wow, I didn't realize it was so late!" Rick stared at his watch in genuine panic. "See you later!" he said to the table in general, and ran, slowing only when he skidded to a stop beside his desk in math.

"Richard, you're here early." Ms. Simpkins glanced at the clock which showed a full fifteen minutes to class time.

"Uh yeah, I was just going to … uh … go over last night's homework."

"Really?" Ms. Simpkins asked, then shook her head. "Come over here, I want to talk to you."

He advanced reluctantly. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No. It's the Bailey administration that has made the error, I'm afraid." For a moment, he thought she looked almost cheerful, but then she continued sternly, "When Mr. Wayne explained that you had a tutor in math, they assumed it was because you were struggling, not because you were advanced. I had a little chat with the vice principal last night, and showed him your puzzle. He agreed that you do not need Mathematical Elementals. However, I expressed my personal opinion, which I have no doubt will be backed by Dr. Peaceable, that even if we were to place you in Trigonometry with the seniors, the material would not be challenging. Therefore, I am going to offer you a choice. You can either request a transfer into a higher math, or you can continue to attend this class, but pursue a course of independent study agreed upon by myself and your tutor."

Rick hesitated. _I wonder what class Barbara's in?_ Then he jerked himself back to reality and answered, "Independent study sounds great. You want Alex's email or something?"

"Please. And Richard, I am sorry about the confusion surrounding your first week."

"It's ok," he said easily, ripping a sheet out of his notebook and scribbling Alex's address.

"Thank you, Richard. And now, I have a favor to ask. I've noticed that you seem to be making friends with Carmen Leo."

"Sort of. She's kind of shy."

"I know. She's also failing this class. I've tried everything I can think of to get the concepts through to her, but nothing seems to work. Then I thought perhaps a peer tutor—sometimes a student can explain what a teacher can't. But she's so shy, I don't think she said a single word to the girl I assigned to work with her. However, she seems to like you, so I wondered if you'd try. It will count toward your class work, of course."

"I'll try," he agreed, privately wondering how he could succeed where a teacher had failed.

His doubt increased when he and Carmen pulled their desks off to the side, and she slumped into hers with her head down, her hair draping both sides of her face. Trying to explain the math was no good if she wouldn't even look at him. He wondered if she was embarrassed about needing help or whether she just had problems talking to anyone about anything.

He summoned a friendly smile, winced as his bruised cheek shifted, and remembered the smile his faces had earned the day before. Maybe they just needed to talk about something else before they got down to work. He scooted his chair a little closer. "Go ahead, just ask. You're the only person in school who hasn't."

He waited a long moment and had almost decided he would have to have the conversation by himself, when she said so softly he had to lean forward to catch it, "Ask what?"

"What happened to my face, of course. And before you ask, no, Bruce doesn't beat me, and, no, this wasn't a warning from my bookie to pay up or else."

Carmen slowly reached up and tucked half of her hair behind her ear. She had a pale, rather puffy face, and there were deep violet shadows under her eyes. "Do you really have a bookie?"

"No." He winked. "I have seven, one for every day of the week."

Carmen giggled at the lame joke and the hair slipped back over her face. She pushed it away. "So how did you hurt your face?"

"Finally. I thought you'd never ask." Rick rolled his eyes in exaggerated relief. "So I was walking downtown on Friday when this guy busts out of a bank waving a gun." He explained how he had both stopped the bank robber and saved a baby carriage from being flattened by a semi, inflating his own heroism until Carmen had to hold back a giggle with her hand.

"You made that up," she accused when he finished.

Rick tried to look offended and held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"I bet you're not really a boy scout, either."

He hung his head in pretend shame. "Busted."

She really laughed this time, and pulled all of her hair over her shoulder so that it would stop cascading across her face.

_Go me,_ Rick applauded himself, and pulled the worksheet forward. "So … what exactly about these problems don't you understand?" Personally, Rick couldn't see how anyone could possibly not understand. But it had always been like that for him with numbers—they just made sense, in the same way he suspected flowers made sense to Alfred.

"I just … I just don't understand why when you multiply fractions they get smaller. Multiplying things is supposed to make them bigger!"

"That's because they're fractions. Just parts of things, you know?"

"But when you get a bunch of parts of things, shouldn't they add up to be more?" A tear fell down her cheek. "I'm just so stupid."

"No, no, you're not stupid! I'm just not explaining it right." Rick frantically scrambled for an idea, anything to keep her from crying. "Apples."

"Apples?" she asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, in my lunch. I didn't get to finish my lunch today." He pulled the small container out of his bag and popped off the lid. "Sometimes it helps if you think of the multiplication sign as being like the word 'of.'" His very first tutor, the one Bruce had fired for being incompetent, had taught him that. "Now think of these apple slices as ones."

She looked confused. "Ok."

"Now ask me for three of them."

Carmen hesitated.

"Go on, ask me!"

"Can I please have three of your apple slices?"

"Sure." He passed her three slices. "Because three times one is three, right? That's how multiplication with whole numbers works."

She nodded slowly.

"All right, multiplication with fractions actually works the same way. Ask me for half of this apple slice."

"Can I have half of your apple slice?"

"You forgot the magic word."

Carmen rolled her eyes. "Please, can I have half of your apple slice?"

"Sure." He bit off half the slice and showed it to her. "See, that's one half of one apple slice. It's smaller than a whole slice."

"Oh," she said slowly. "I … think I get it. Can you do that again?"

"Ok, say you asked for one fourth of this one half slice." Rick bit off all but the tip of the remaining apple. "See how tiny that is?" he asked, too enthusiastically, as a bit of apple flew from his mouth and landed on her paper. He swallowed hastily. "Sorry."

Carmen brushed it away and started to laugh. "I never saw anyone eat a math problem before."

"Seriously? What, have you been hiding under a rock or something?"

They only finished five problems by the end of the period, but she did the last one by herself. "Thanks," she said shyly, gathering up her things.

"No problem," Rick answered cheerfully, feeling pleased with the world in general. He shoved his notebook into his bag and suddenly remembered he had Life Skills next, where Amanda was almost definitely going to ask him to the Valentine's dance. For a moment, his blanked in panic, and then he shouted, "Hey, Carmen!" and ran after her, catching her just outside in the hall. "Hey, would you … um …" He felt suddenly awkward, but remembered his danger and persevered, "You want to go with me to the Valentine's dance? I mean, just as friends."

Carmen's face turned bright red, and she bent her head, hiding in her hair.

"No pressure or anything, I just thought it would be fun." _About a thousand times more fun than explaining to Amanda why I don't want to go with her._ "Please?" he added, trying not to sound desperate.

"Ok," she whispered.

"You will? Hey, that's great." Rick grinned in relief. "Ok, I'll see you in class tomorrow!" He took off down the hall and made it to Life Skills before either of his neighbors.

He hadn't covered his bases too soon. The moment Amanda was seated, she leaned over and said, "Hey Rick, you know the dance?"

"Yeah," he returned enthusiastically. "I totally took your advice."

"You … did?"

"You were right, three weeks isn't that long. So I asked someone, and she said yes!"

"Oh." Amanda looked shocked, then dropped back into her seat, not even bothering to ask who it was.

* * *

Rick went back to Wayne Tower that afternoon for his first official session with the think tank. They met not in the underground vault but in an airy, sunny room near the top of the tower. The security measures to get in, however, were no less stringent.

Fox came up with him in order to introduce him to the team. There were three of them, four with Alex, and Rick supposed that he himself now made five.

Dr. Zachariah Morgan, the unofficial head of the team by virtue of seniority, was a retired professor from Harvard and an old friend of Fox's, coaxed him out of his Hawaiian seclusion to join the tank two years ago.

Nathan Flugle had no doctorate. He'd been hired straight out of undergrad by NASA. Quickly bored by rocket science and a relatively low salary, he had been easily lured by Fox into the Wayne Enterprises fold. He was grossly fat and rarely moved from the oversized, overstuffed chair he'd positioned next to a window, where he balanced a clipboard on his mounded belly to doodle endless rows of daisies, and occasionally amused himself by bouncing his latest stroke of genius in a crumpled ball off the back of Dr. Morgan's head.

The third member of the team was Dr. Monica Ray. Her wispy blond hair and timid smile gave her an air of diffidence that immediately disappeared when she began to talk numbers. She was the one in charge of supervising Richard's initiation into the project, and after Fox left the two of them settled at her desk.

"All right," she began briskly, "I'm going to talk you through our current knot and see if you have any bright ideas about new approaches." She pointed to a spot on a page dense with equations and launched into an explanation of which he understood the first five words.

After thirty seconds of frowning intently in concentration, Rick threw up a hand to stall her monologue. "I'm sorry," he said frankly, "but I don't have any idea what you just said."

She regarded him intently through the gold frames of her glasses and then smiled. "Alex said you were honest. That's good. It means I don't have to waste a lot of time convincing that you don't know as much as you think you know." She rifled through the papers on her desk and pulled one out of a stack. "Let's start here, instead."

-break-

After school, Barbara lay curled on her side on her bed, staring out the window at the gray day. She felt lethargic and tired, but she did not want to go to sleep. If she slept she would dream again, and she would see him falling, always falling.

_This is ridiculous_, she told herself yet again, but she could not shake off the depression that had clung to her ever since she and Trevor had witnessed the rooftop chase and its disastrous ending. Before she had seen him with her own eyes, she had doubted Robin's existence, and had it not been for Trevor's long ago interview with Demetrios Pappas, she would have written him off entirely as a creation of the press. He never did anything spectacular and was only ever mentioned in conjunction with Batman. He was the Bat's little shadow and cohort, and Barbara had to admit that while she had been jealous of him, she also despised him just a little. He was such a … sidekick.

But now that she had actually seen him, she realized how deeply she believed that his existence justified her own. He was the one, after all, who had inspired Trevor and herself to try to do something, not to wait until they were adults to help keep vigil against the darkness in Gotham.

"Barbara!" her father's call interrupted her dismal reflections.

She found him waiting at the foot of the stairs, wearing a stern expression that he usually reserved for suspects. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Will you come in here, please?" She followed him into the home office he almost never used and sat down in the chair he pointed at.

"Daddy, what's going on?"

"Barbara, how long ago did you lose your mother's wedding ring?"

She couldn't keep the surprise and dismay off her face. "How … how did you find out?"

"Just answer my question, please."

"I … about three months ago, and I was going to tell you, I swear, but then it turned up and I didn't want to worry you, and I felt so guilty for not being more careful …" She trailed off, looking sad.

"You have the ring?" Gordon demanded in disbelief.

"Of course." Barbara reached beneath the collar of her sweater and pulled out a fine but strong chain. A worn gold band dangled from the end of it. "I got a better chain after the old one broke in gym class. But see, it's safe. And I take it off for gym, now. That's where I lost it."

"How long was it gone?"

"A month," she confessed. "I kept trying to tell you and then putting it off and hoping for a miracle. And I got one. Mr. Harris found it when he was sweeping up the gym one night. I'd asked him to keep an eye out for me."

"I see," Gordon muttered. "Could I see that, please?"

"Sure." She unhooked the chain and handed it over before asking, "How did you find out?"

Gordon tilted the ring so that he could read the inscription on the inside. "The coroner found a replica of this ring in Commissioner Loeb's pocket this morning."

Barbara's face went white. "How is that possible?"

"Someone must have found it and copied it during that month it was missing. I'm going to have to take this in for processing." He tucked the ring into his pocket.

"But why leave it on the Commissioner's body?"

"Because …" Gordon swallowed hard and leaned forward to take his daughter's hands. "Each of these crime scenes has been set up like a puzzle. The killer plants clues for us to solve, like a game. Some of those clues point to the next person he's going to kill."

She stared at him in shock. "But that doesn't even make sense. I'm not an enemy of Batman."

"I know, I know," Gordon agreed, trying to keep his voice steady. "There were other rings found in his pockets. It's probably one of the other women. But just in case, I want you to get out of Gotham for a little while."

Barbara straightened in her chair. "No. No way."

"Sweetie, it's just until—"

"Until somebody else dies? But that could be months! Maybe he'll never kill again. Besides, where would I go? We don't have any relatives outside the city. What about school?"

_What about school?_ Gordon thought grimly. He'd wanted Barbara out of Bailey since the printer had been discovered. So far, no one outside the department knew about the connection to Bailey, and as far as they could tell, it was the only slipup the killer had made. He didn't want to start publicizing it. "Barbara, I know you don't want to let this put your life on hold. But this guy—he's serious and he's good. He's left clues about all his victims and we still haven't prevented their deaths."

"But none of the others had a warning. Dad, I'll be careful. I won't go places by myself. Besides, I'm not the target!"

"No. I've already contacted an old colleague of mine in Chicago. She and her husband …"

"I'm not going," Barbara said flatly.

"Yes, you are. This isn't an option."

Barbara crossed her arms stubbornly. "You can't make me. I'm eighteen. I'll move out if I have to."

Gordon's jaw dropped. "Where would you go?" he spluttered.

She shrugged. "Trevor's."

"No!" he thundered. "Out of the question. Barbara—"

"No," she echoed him. "I'm not going to Chicago. It's up to you whether I live here or at Trevor's, but I'm staying in Gotham."

* * *

"So on top of getting saddled with acting Commissioner, my daughter absolutely refuses to go into any kind of protective custody, and she threatened to move to her boyfriend's if I forced her," Gordon seethed, storming back and forth. "I can't believe she's so stubborn! This is her life we're talking about!" He didn't know why he was saying all of this, and he really didn't know why the Bat was standing there listening to it, but he kept going. He had to say it to someone. "And my wife's wedding ring is found in the pocket of a man identified by the killer as an adulterer? So what, she's supposed to have had an affair with him?" Abruptly switching back to his daughter he concluded, "And I can't even tell Barbara all the reasons why she needs to be extra careful at Bailey. God knows I wish she'd never won that scholarship." Finished, he sat down on the edge of an ice encrusted air vent and held his head in his hands.

"She'll be guarded at school."

Gordon looked up quickly, but Batman was gone. It didn't matter. He wasn't sure whether it was the venting or the promise, but Gordon felt lighter as he headed back inside.

* * *

Again, she came out of nowhere. Batman was running across a roof, heading for the Batmobile, when Catwoman flew across his path, not ten feet ahead. He immediately gave chase, and they careened across the slippery rooftops. She managed to stay just ahead of him until they dead-ended against a taller building and had to go up. Batman caught her in a story and a half, but she twisted sharply away and fell back to the lower roof. He followed and lunged as soon as he landed, but she darted out of the way.

Instead of running back the way they had come, she ran a few feet away and stopped, watching him. He dove, and again she eluded his grasp and circled around. Wary, now, he joined her in circling, and they paced together, around and back.

She surprised him again, by speaking. "I did you a favor the other night. You could let me go and call us even." Her voice was low and husky, obviously disguised.

He pounced a third time and was sidestepped.

"We've really developed a routine. I run, you chase me. It's getting a little boring, don't you think?" She paced a wide circle around him, forcing him to continually turn to face her. "I was thinking that perhaps we could come to an arrangement. Whatever _your_ preferences are, I don't like running marathons across the roofs. It's high risk and low return. If I fall, I don't want it to be because I'm running away from you. Again."

He flung a batarang, and she had to throw herself to the side to avoid it. This time, his lunge was successful, and his hand closed around her wrist. He twisted her arm in a move that should have immobilized her, and instead found his legs collapsing under him as she used his knees as a springboard to flip over and out of the lock.

"Play nice or you might get hurt," she taunted, as he rolled to his feet and they resumed circling. "You know, I really can't figure out why you're interested in me. I wouldn't say I was your type. Don't you usually go after the really bad guys? Crime lords, serial killers, megalomaniacs trying to take over the world? All I do is … borrow things from people who won't really miss them. I can't help thinking you must have an ulterior motive."

He tried a false feint that she almost bought, but checked herself in the last split second. They danced around each other as she gasped and exclaimed, "That's it! You're trying to ask me out! The relentless pursuit, the attempts at capture—it's a prehistoric mating ritual! Who knew bat instincts went back so far?"

Batman stood suddenly still and stared at her, beginning to suspect there was more than one twist in her mind.

"I admit I have a thing for the strong, silent type, but I just don't—"

He flung a capsule, and smoke billowed up around them both as Batman made one final dive. His hands closed around thin air, and by the time the smoke cleared he was alone on the roof, with only the echo of laughter.

* * *

Rick watched unobtrusively from the parking lot as Barbara and Trevor walked to the unmarked car waiting for them at the curb. A plainclothes detective opened the door for them, and a moment later they were speeding away from Bailey. His first day of official Barbara watching was over. While he'd been far from displeased with the assignment—aside from being worried about her as a potential target—the day had proved frustrating. Because he shared only one class with her, he could only actually see her in the hallways, and he although he tried to alter his own route to intersect with her most likely path between classes, he didn't always catch a glimpse of her in the hallways, which made him worry, even though the chances the Riddler would strike in the middle of the school day were minimal.

So it was with a sense of relief that he mentally turned her over to the custody of the police and headed for the basement to catch up on some exploring and surveillance. David Stern's dead end nook was dark when Rick got there, so he pulled out a tiny flashlight and entered. The masks on the walls proved to be rubber costume shop replicas of actual tribal masks, all except the one in the center, which seemed to be made of an actual goat skull and suspiciously human hair. The candles on the desks were a jumble. Cheap tapers and votives mingled with candles in glass jars with pictures of saints pasted on the front. But as Rick sorted through the clutter on the second desk, he found something he hadn't been able to see from a distance—a small snapshot of Georgia Stern and her father, half covered in wax drippings.

A broad beam of light suddenly shot through the gloom, and Rick spun, half blinded, to see a dark figure lunging toward him.

"Get out!" David Stern screamed, swinging his heavy flashlight.

Rick ducked and darted around him. "Whoa, dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean …"

"GET OUT!" David Stern whirled and swung the flashlight again, connected with the cement wall. A shattering sound plunged them into darkness.

Rick paused to let his eyes adjust, and felt the other boy brush past him, swinging wildly, heard him slam into the wall. "GET OUT!"

"I'm going!" Rick scrambled for the entrance and ran down the passageway. Rounding a corner, he skidded to a stop, just in time to avoid running into Mr. Harris.

"What's going on?" the janitor demanded, pointing down the passageway where David was still screaming.

"I was just … you know, exploring, and …"

Mr. Harris nodded understandingly. "And David found you in his space."

Rick shrugged, feeling guilty. "Yeah."

"He's been so upset, ever since his mother and his grandfather … well, I let him do his thing down here. It doesn't hurt anyone," the older man explained, frowning. "You should leave him alone. That boy's got troubles."

"Yeah. I will. I'm sorry, I just … didn't know."

The janitor nodded. "Go home."

Rick obeyed.

_To Be Continued_


	11. January: Singalong

**A/N** Woot! I did it! I posted a new chapter before leaving to see Dark Knight! And I have almost a whole hour to spare! This setting small goals is a good idea. My new goal is to post the next chapter by next Friday. (Also to get review responses for the last two chapters sent in the next couple of days.)

Well, I guess that's all I have to say, except that due to the speed with which this chapter was written, I dispensed with the luxury of proofreading, so please excuse my typos! And if there's anything absolutely nonsensical, please let me know so I can fix it.

I'm not sure that this chapter's quote is as relevant as it should be, but I couldn't pass it up.

**Chapter 11**

_To live in Australia permanently is rather like going to a party and dancing all night with one's mother._

_- Barry Humphries_

As Mr. Davis droned on about the pros and cons of investing in real estate Thursday afternoon, Rick knocked his pencil to the ground and leaned over to pick it up. As he fumbled around on the floor, his hand brushed against Barbara's book bag. It took him only a second to slip the tiny tracking pin into the thick canvas, and then he recovered his pencil and sat up. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do for the moment—if there was ever an emergency at school, he would be able to locate her on the plan of the school he'd downloaded into his cell (phone calls, of course, were the least of its functions). Later that afternoon, after the final bell had rung, he leaned casually against his locker and watched the tiny dot move out the school doors into the parking lot. It was much easier than trying to stalk her through the hallways.

Something else that had grown much easier was leaving the school building unharassed. The paparazzi had at last grown tired of waiting for him en masse, and while there might a lone photographer on a slow news day, he no longer felt attacked when he walked out the door. Amanda was also avoiding him, ever since he'd announced he was taking someone else to the dance, and for the first time since the semester had started, Rick felt like things were going smoothly. He'd even solved the mystery of David Stern's bizarre room, or at least, he thought he had. A little research had informed him that frightening masks were used in many cultures to scare away evil spirits, while candles were often connected with keeping vigil for the dead. It seemed likely that David had concocted his own religious ritual to help him deal with the murders of his mother and grandfather, and while Rick felt sorry for him, he was pleased that aspect of Bailey's puzzles had been explained.

Ignoring the school bus, Rick headed for the train station, made his usual station locker clothing switch, and boarded another train. Settling into an empty seat, he slumped down and thought seriously about what he was doing. He had pulled out the old file on the pawnshop robbery after his last encounter with Niko, and a single glance at the grainy newspaper photo had been enough to convince him that Ariadne was the same girl Batman had rescued that night.

The discovery, however, hadn't deterred Rick in the least from keeping his promise to attend her birthday party. The thought of spending even a few hours in a place where he was no one of any importance at all would have been enough to lure him even if he had more obstacles than his conscience to overcome. Bruce had been in a reclusive mood for nearly a week, talking little and spending even longer hours than usual sequestered in the batcave. Alfred had been unusually silent, although he shut himself in the conservatory rather than under the Manor. Rick wished that one of them would simply tell him what the problem was, but neither Bruce nor Alfred would admit anything was wrong. Between tension at the Manor and the constant front he had maintain at school, Rick felt exhausted. More than anything, he wanted to be with people who weren't secret crime fighters or murder suspects. He hadn't realized how much he appreciated that about Alex.

Ari flung open the door before Rick had finished knocking and smiled widely. "Rick, you came!" Before he could wonder how she knew who he was, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the apartment. "this is my friend Marissa," she introduced, waving in the direction of another girl. They were both dressed in plaid skirts and white blouses, obviously their school uniform, but Marissa wore her top button open with the tie fashionably askew and had her hair tumbling over shoulders, while Ariadne was almost painfully neat. The reason why was apparent a moment later as her mother emerged from the bedroom and smoothed Ari's hair and straightened her tie before turning to Rick.

"Mama, this is Rick."

"Hello, Mrs. Pappas," Rick said politely, shaking hands.

She beamed at him. "Such a nice boy. Then she reached out and turned his face toward the light, clucking in concern. "This is what you did in the lot? I tell Niko it's too dangerous in the winter, but you boys will never listen." Her smile changed to a frown, and she shook her finger warningly. "Be more careful." Patting his shoulder, she hurried inot the kitchen where a number of pots were bubbling on the stove.

The door to the apartment swung open, and Niko came in, pulling off his ski cap. "Rick, man, I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to come."

"Niko!" his mother snapped.

Niko rolled his eyes and offered a hand slap in greeting.

"Rick happens to be a nice boy, unlike certain other people in this room," Ariadne informed him. "He does what he says he's going to do."

Niko groaned. "Lay off, will you? I told you I've been busy. I'm here for your stu …" He caught himself and glanced toward the kitchen. "… your party, aren't I?" He glanced over to the couch where Marissa sat, casually examining her nails.

"Hey, Niko," she said, not looking up.

"Hey," he returned, looking quickly away. "Who else are we waiting for?"

"No on, Elena is meeting us at the theater," Ari said calmly, pulling on her coat. "Mama, we're ready to go!"

Athena came around the bar that divided the tiny kitchen from the living room and pulled out a worn coin purse that hung on a cord around her neck. She removed a folded twenty and handed it to Niko. "No popcorn, just tickets," she ordered. "You eat when you come home."

"Yes, mama," he promised, and the four of them left the apartment. They had walked two blocks when Ari stopped abruptly, holding up her white cane like a baton. "I forgot my earmuffs."

Niko stared at her in disbelief. "Forget it, we're halfway there."

"I'll get an earache," she threatened.

"Put your scarf over your head. No way I'm going back."

"I'll go by myself."

"You're not allowed."

Ari crossed her arms, narrowly missing Marissa's head with her cane. "Fine. Rick, will you go back with me?"

"Uh …" He glanced back and forth between the quarreling siblings. "I don't mind," he ventured, half apologetically.

Ari issued one of her glowing smiles. "We'll catch up with you guys at the theater." Grabbing Rick's arm, she pulled him back the way they had come.

But the moment they rounded the corner, she stopped. "Look back and see if Niko's gone."

"Why?"

She sighed impatiently. "Because we're not going home, of course. Can you see him anymore?"

Feeling more uneasy by the second, Rick peered around the corner. "I can't see him. Where are we going?"

"Just a quick errand." She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of earmuffs. "I knew he wouldn't take me back, and I knew you would," she explained as she put them on. "I am a very good judge of character. Come on, it's only a few blocks."

They walked briskly for a few minutes, Rick watching warily as the neighborhood went from shabby to decrepit. "I really don't think we should be down here …" he began, as a group of guys across the street gave them unfriendly stares.

"Here we are!" she exclaimed, ignoring him. "This is 1610, right?"

Rick looked up at the crumbling tenement. "What are we doing here?"

Ari crossed her arms. "It's a secret. Swear not to tell anyone?"

Rick regarded her in alarm. "Tell me it's not illegal."

"Do I seem like a dope pusher to you?" she demanded. "It's not wrong, it's just a secret. Do you promise?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Ok." She pulled a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper from her pocket, along with a black marker. "First write 'Ethel Purcell' on it. That's P-U-R-C-E-L-L."

Rick scribbled the name, keeping one eye on the group across the street. "Now what?"

"Beneath it write 'From a friend of Batman.'"

"What?" he demanded, shocked.

"Just do it. I'll explain later."

"No way, not until you tell me what's in here."

"It's a flea collar, ok? Her neighbor's going to kill her cat if she doesn't put a flea collar on it, but she's old and crazy and can't afford one."

"That's nice of you, but … Batman?"

"I'll explain on the way to the theater. Just go stuff it through her mail slot, apartment 1A. I'll wait out here."

"Oh no. I'm not leaving you out here by yourself." He tugged her arm in the direction of the door, but she stayed stubbornly still. "There's more chance of getting caught if both of us go. Besides, I'm kind of recognizable. She waved her cane and hit him lightly on the arm. "Go already!"

Deciding that the faster he delivered the package, the faster they could leave, Rick ran inside and shoved the package through the tarnished mail slot. He shot back out the door to find the menacing group halfway across the street. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed Ari's arm and started marching her up the block. "We gotta go."

"Slow down," she protested, stumbling over a rough spot in the pavement.

"Hey, Ari," a voice behind them called.

Rick tried to keep walking, but Ari stopped short and jerked her arm free. "Skatz?" she asked turning around.

Rick automatically moved to put himself between Ariadne and the six teenagers that had followed them. Their shaved and tattooed heads, along with the stripes of color on their coat sleeves, proclaimed them a gang, and he frantically wondered how he was going to escape them, blind girl in tow, without making a spectacle of himself. The leader ignored him, but the rest of the pack pinned him with glares.

"You okay with this guy?" Skatz asked. "Looked like you two were fighting back there."

"Yeah, we're just going to the movies," she said cheerfully. "I haven't talked to you in a long time."

"Tell your brother to bring you around."

She heaved a disgusted sigh. "He won't. He's an idiot."

Skatz grinned. "I'll talk to him."

There was a slight pause, and then Ari said, sounding slightly uncomfortable, "We'd better go or we'll miss our show."

Skatz transferred his gaze to Rick. "You take good care of her." The unspoken threat was clear.

"Don't worry," Rick muttered, and gratefully hurried Ari off down the street. "Do you know all the gangs in Gotham?" he demanded when they were safely away.

"No. Just Skatz's," she said cheerfully. "And it's Niko's fault I met them because he goes to their club, so he shouldn't get mad at me. Anyway, I did them a favor, so they like me."

"A favor?"

She shrugged. "Another gang was going to ambush them, so I let them know. You wouldn't believe the stuff people say around me because I'm blind. I mean, hello! I'm not Helen Keller!"

He had to laugh. "I guess people are stupid sometimes."

"You're telling me."

They walked for a block in silence, and then he asked, "Are you going to tell me what that whole Friend of Batman thing was about?"

"Only if you promise not to laugh."

"I promise," he said quickly.

"Well, the Batman does good things and nobody knows who he is, right?"

"Right."

"So I do good things and sign it A Friend of Batman, so nobody knows it's me. And don't even try to tell me giving a flea collar isn't the same thing as stopping a criminal. A good deed is a good deed." She said it fiercely, as though she expected him to argue, but when he said nothing, she went on more softly, "I can't do it by myself of course, so I have to get Niko to help me, but sometimes he won't. He doesn't understand. He thinks if I want to do stuff for people I should just do it and forget the Batman part."

Rick thought about that for a moment. "Why don't you?"

"Because the Batman's important! I mean, if I gave the flea collar to Mrs. Purcell myself, she would think I was a nice, sweet girl. But if she thinks someone connected to Batman gave it to her, it will make her feel … special." She gestured vaguely with her cane. "So that's why you can't tell anyone. It would ruin it if it wasn't a secret. Niko's the only other one who knows." She waited, but when he didn't respond asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I just … never thought about it that way. And I'm wondering why you told me."

She shrugged. "I need someone to help me when Niko won't, and I thought you probably would. I'm a …"

"… very good judge of character, I know," he interrupted, feeling inexplicably annoyed.

"Besides, it's my birthday. You should be nice to me!"

Jumping at the chance to change the subject, Rick asked, "How old are you, anyway?"

"Fifteen today," she said proudly.

"Fifteen?" he asked doubtfully. Privately, he thought she looked about ten.

Ariadne stomped her foot. "Yes! Fifteen! Just because I don't have boobs, nobody will believe how old I am! It's seriously annoying."

There was no good response to that, and Rick was immensely relieved to see the discount theater up ahead. "Look, we're almost there!"

Niko and Marissa were waiting inside, the tickets already bought. "Elena's not here," Marissa informed them. "I bet her mother wouldn't let her come. You know how she is."

Ari suddenly looked sad and Niko angry. "Come on," he muttered, "we've already missed the trailers. What took you two so long?"

"We ran into Skatz," Ari trilled, her usual cheerfulness back in place.

"I told you not to talk to that guy!" Niko exploded.

"He talked to me first. I couldn't help it."

Niko glowered and backed up so that he wouldn't have to sit next to his sister in the row, leaving Marissa on one end of the group and himself on the other. As the credits rolled, Rick heard the two girls whispering, and a minute later Marissa got up and hurried out of the theater. Ari poked his arm and whispered, "Whenever I poke you, tell me what's happening on the screen."

Fortunately, the opening scenes of the movie were full of dialogue, and Rick's comments were mostly limited to "They're riding in the elevator" or "She's making a sandwich."

Marissa reappeared after five minutes, but slipped into the opposite of the row, next to Niko. Ari heard her return and snickered. "I knew she was going to do that. She has a huge crush on Niko. I think she's crazy."

Having to narrate the silent parts of the movie to Ari proved to be much more interesting than just watching it. She was full of commentary on the characters, and the only problematic moment came during the pivotal love scene. "What's happening?" Ari hissed, when Rick didn't respond to her poke.

He glanced embarrassedly from the screen where the heroine was ripping off the hero's t-shirt, to Ari, to her big brother sitting on his other side. "Uh … they're … you know …"

The hero began delivering a series of noisy kisses, and Ari wrinkled her nose. "Never mind, I get it." She folded her arms impatiently. "Sex scenes are so boring for blind people. There's nothing to listen to but gasping. And smacking. And goopy music."

"I guess I never really thought about it," Rick muttered, sinking down as far as his seat would let him, and refusing to look at Niko, who was eyeing them suspiciously.

"You and the director both," she muttered back, and he had to choke down a laugh.

* * *

"Bruce, over here!"

Bruce waved in the direction of the voice but made no effort to cross over to the roulette table it had come from. It was two hours into the first party of the Deep Harbor Hotel and Casino pre-opening weekend, and he was already bored out of his mind. Inwardly, he chafed at the time he was wasting, drifting around the floor of the casino, while a murderer and a thief wreaked havoc on Gotham. He should be working, he wanted to be working. He wanted to stop plastering on the wide smile and go somewhere where everything he detested about his life didn't glare in his face quite so brightly.

And, a quiet corner of his mind admitted, the fact that Selina Kyle had not appeared all evening had not soothed his excessive irritation. He looked forward to bantering words with her a lot more than he looked forward to most things about this glittering, artificial part of his existence, and her absence made harder to fight off the mild depression that often descended when he had to don the role of the playboy.

Deciding that no one on the floor was going to miss him, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity to explore the hotel and get an idea of the security arrangements. Tonight, he would be trapped here—the omnipresent electric eyes made it impossible to leave unseen—and being seen sneaking on the first night of the party would be sure to rouse comment.

For tomorrow night, he had a convenient previous engagement that would let him return unremarked to the hotel as late as he wanted. He could don his cowl and prowl the streets without raising suspicions by his absence, but … but it was a Friday night, and Richard would want to go with him.

Bruce's stomach clenched. He'd gone over and over Robin's disastrous last outing, trying to decide which of the possible answers to the attack was the right one. Either the shot had come from a trigger happy gunman who just happened to see them up on the roof, or the shot had been intended for Catwoman by someone who had known she would be there. Or it was possible that the shot had come from a friend of Catwoman's who had sought to protect her. Or, and these were the possibilities he liked least of all, someone had figured out where they would be and laid a trap. If that was true, it meant someone knew far to much about Batman and his methods.

It was possible that Catwoman had led them into that trap, if a trap it was, but if so, why had she gone after Robin as he fell over the edge? And why had she suggested a truce during their last encounter? She was, he had to admit, by far the most intriguing villain he'd pursued. Maybe it was because she was not, as she had said, one of the really bad guys. She wasn't out dressing up dead bodies to make them fit old riddles, so he could afford to be intrigued by her.

But no matter what kind of threat she was, he didn't want Richard running across the rooftops until he had proved where that shot had come from and made certain it wouldn't happen again. Which might be impossible. And there would be other shooters—that was a guarantee.

He had gone as high as the elevator would permit on his room key, one floor above his own room. Wondering who merited the extremely VIP suites, he wandered down the corridor, but like the other floors, there was absolutely no indication of who stayed behind the closed doors. He was nearly to the far end of the hall, when a door unexpectedly swung open and Lex Luthor appeared. "Bruce! What are you doing up here so far from the party?"

"Being nosy." Bruce grinned. "It's a nice hotel. I own a couple myself, you know."

"I know. I tried to buy one and your people turned me down."

"Did they?"

Luthor raised one pale brow. "Didn't you know?"

"There's so much … it's hard to keep track of …" Bruce trailed off and shrugged.

"Do you want to complete your inspection and come up to the penthouse for a drink?" the other man invited. "I've got just one phone call I have to make." He inserted a key card into the pad by the elevator, and a second later the door slid silently back.

"Sure." Bruce followed him into the car and felt the sudden pressure as they zoomed upward. "Phone calls at midnight? Must be important."

"International business is no respecter of time zones, as I'm sure you know."

The elevator doors opened straight into a large room, softly lit and decorated in muted colors. It seemed to be a kind of showroom, because the perimeter was decorated with shelves and display stands, while the walls were covered with art that was probably worth, at a rough estimate, a fourth of the value of the entire hotel.

"My collection room," Lex explained. "I try to keep one in every major business venture. Gives me something to talk about when the conversation runs out. Look around while I take care of that call, and help yourself to the bar."

Bruce poured a scotch and strolled slowly around, giving the items in the collection only a cursory examination. Most of them looked old, centuries at least, and he had no interest in ancient relics. He paused before a display that was different from the rest. Rough rocks were nestled against black velvet, and from the depths of each one green or red or black crystals seemed to gleam in their own light.

Lex reentered the room and poured himself a drink before walking over. "What do you think?"

Bruce lifted his glass in a mock toast. "It's good scotch."

"Naturally. I meant my collection."

"Ah." Bruce glanced around the room. "I'm not really into old art. Or … new art."

"Of course not. You're the consummate cultural dunce, aren't you? You care only about your cars and your models … in public at least. But I suspect there is more to you than meets the eye."

Bruce smiled. "Me? No, not really."

"Really?" Lex regarded him thoughtfully. "I don't think so at all. I find you rather enigmatic, as a matter of fact. Take your company—everyone _says_ it's run by Lucius Fox, or possibly that old butler of yours. But I'm not so sure. I've heard some very interesting rumors about that time you miraculously reappeared and kept the company from going public."

"There's a lot of rumors out there, Lex. And it's absolutely true that I leave the running of the company to … more interested men." Bruce pointed to the case he'd been examining. "Not to change the subject or anything, but what are these? I've never seen anything like them."

Lex suddenly smiled, as if at some private joke. "Meteor rocks. There was a devastating shower that I actually witnessed as a boy, and these are part of that."

"Space rocks. Cool. What do they do?"

"Do?" Lex's smile deepened. "They're rocks. They sit there."

"So … they're just ordinary rocks?"

"Well, not ordinary precisely. And someday they may relay valuable information about other bodies in space, perhaps even the beginnings of the universe. But I have to admit my scientists haven't come up with anything striking."

"Too bad."

"Yes."

They stared at the rocks in silence for a moment, and then Lex abruptly asked, "So what do you think? Is Gotham big enough for Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp?"

"Gotham's a big place," Bruce replied carefully. "But I bet you used to get in trouble for not playing nice with the other kids."

Lex smiled humorlessly. "If it's in my best interests, I'll crush you, humiliate you, and make you wish you'd never heard your own name."

Bruce smiled back. "I could tell you that would be hard to do, but heck, I hope you'll try. Nothing that interesting has happened in this city since that bat guy started flying around."

"In that case …" Lex lifted his glass in a toast, "… to business. May the game be good."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Enjoy The Dark Knight, everyone! And if Rachel Dawes is about to break Bruce's heart again, I'm going to murder her! Or at least mutter very uncomplimentary things under my breath.

Review? Please? Since I was so good as to write this in only four days?


	12. January: Shringaar

**A/N** Woot! I made another chapter deadline! Thank you all so much for your encouraging reviews. Sadly, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up because I'm moving halfway across the country on Monday. I am setting a tentative deadline of August 10. Hopefully it will be sooner, but it will be by then at the latest. Also, I'm not certain when review responses will go out (I already spent all day writing instead of packing), but hopefully they'll get written within the next week.

_The Dark Knight_ was awesome! I won't comment on it here since I'm sure quite a few people haven't had a chance to see it yet, but I'll just say that I was quite content with what they did with Rachel Dawes' character.

Also, I have two exciting announcements about this chapter! First, I had intended to write out all the second part of Ari's birthday party in the last chapter. However, I ran out of time and I decided it wasn't exactly necessary to the plot. SO, as a special reward for everyone who reviews this chapter, I will PM them the deleted scene, which does answer the popular question, Where is Hector? (If you want it, be sure you're signed in when you review.) Second, beginning this chapter and continuing into the next, I have adopted and adapted a plot device from a very old and very famous English poem. The first reviewer who can identify both the poem and the part of the plot I stole will receive a very special prize. (If no one gets it this chapter, I'll give a hint in the next one.)

Again because of time constraints, this chapter was not beta'd. Embrace the typos!

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Chapter 12**

_Matchmaker, matchmaker maybe I've learned_

_Playing with matches, a girl can get burned_

_Fiddler on the Roof_

Bruce's eyes flickered open in the dim hotel room, and he lay still, listening, trying to remember what had awakened him. But perfect silence permeated the suite, and he decided it had been a click in the heating system. Yawning, he rolled over and tried to doze. He never slept soundly away from the security of the Manor, but sleep with one eye open was better than no sleep at all. His eyes were just drifting closed when he caught a shadow of movement through the archway into the next room. His sense instantly on full alert, he shut his eyes all but the merest slit and waited. A moment later, Selina Kyle stepped through the door.

She glided silently over to the bed, and he could feel her standing over him, watching. then she slipped over to the window and he heard the soft rasp of the rods as she opened the drapes to let in the weak winter sunlight. A moment later, the mattress shifted as she settled herself on the bed beside him. Clearly, she wanted him to wake up, and the only way to find out what else she wanted was to comply.

The decision made, he shifted his breathing pattern and slowly opened eyes, yawned, rolled over, and pretended surprise when he saw Selina. She sat curled at the head of the bed, the blue silk of her robe casually slipping back to reveal one smooth leg.

Bruce smiled slowly. "This is a good dream."

"It had better be," she replied. "This is the only free time I have all day, so be appreciative."

"I am. Definitely." He sat up, letting the covers fall from his chest, thankful that for once there were no awkward bruises to explain away, particularly since it was not polo season. "How did I get so lucky?"

"You weren't." He looked blank, so she explained, "You weren't lucky last night. You weren't anything, in fact, because, as I found out, you didn't play. Bruce, you can't spend the weekend at a casino and not gamble." She leaned forward so that her lips were only inches from his and whispered, "It's against the rules."

She clearly expected him to try and kiss her, so he only smiled and settled back into his pillows. "Lex's rules?"

"House rules," she said coolly, drawing back until she could lean against the headboard. "Customer satisfaction is everything, of course, so I've come to find out what the matter is. Was there a game you wanted to play that we didn't offer? Couldn't you find any people you'd be willing to lose money to?"

"May I be honest?"

"Oh, please don't. Can't you make up an exciting lie instead?"

He ignored her. "Gambling is boring."

She sighed and slipped down so that her face lay on the pillows next to his. "Of course it is. After all, what have you got to win? Nevertheless, it is my job to see that you play."

"Sorry."

"I doubt that."

She lay on her side, watching him, and he could smell the rich fragrance of her perfume, became increasingly aware of her body stretched out beside him. _Focus_, he ordered himself.

"What if you played for something you don't already have?"

"Like what?" he asked, suddenly cautious.

"I am Lex's personal assistant, after all. I know all about upcoming contracts, the plans he's got for Gotham. If you win, I'll do you one favor. Anything you like, within reason, of course. And if I win, you give me the same."

"Within reason?" he asked.

She laughed and propped herself up on one elbow. "No assassinations and no company takeovers."

"Sounds fair enough."

"Good." Selina reached over to the bedside table and pulled a new pack of cards out of the drawer. "What do you want to play?" she asked, tearing the plastic off the box.

"How about Go Fish?"

She stared at him and shook her head. "I'll admit we didn't have that one on the floor last night. But as you like." She shuffled, dealt, and swirled the rest of the deck out on the bed.

"Got any sevens?" Bruce asked, grinning.

"Go fish."

He picked up a card. "Hey, I got one! Must be my lucky day." He laid down the pair and asked, "How about threes? Got any threes?" She handed over a card, and then he had to go fishing for jacks.

"Aces?"

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said in his best Bronx accent. "Go fishin', or you'll be swimmin' with 'em."

She groaned. "Do you stay awake at night and dream up stupid things to say?"

"Beats counting sheep. Fours?"

"Go fish," she said coolly.

They played quietly for a while, and then he asked, "So if you win, what are you going to ask for?"

"I am going to ask you … Sixes? (he shook his head) … about that top secret plane Wayne Enterprises started working on last year."

"We have a top secret plane?" he asked in surprise. "Fox never tells me _anything_. Kings?"

"No. And surely it must have come up at one or two board meetings."

"Must have been one of the ones I slept through."

"Hypnosis has proven very effective at helping people recall sounds they heard while sleeping."

"You do you hypnosis? Like, where we stare deeply into each other's eyes and you tell me to relax? Go fish."

"Something like that." She drew the last card and handed it to him. "There's your last match. You win."

"Excellent." He gathered up the cards and put them back in the box.

"Make your request."

"I don't know, it's a big decision. Want to sit in the Jacuzzi while I think about? Since you gave it to me after all."

She looked over at the clock. "How disappointing, I'm afraid I don't have time," she said with mock regret. "Now make your request before you lose your window of opportunity."

"Ok, ok. Kiss me."

She stared at him. "What?"

"Kiss me. Right now. And make it good, will you?"

"You're hopelessly cliché, Bruce, has anyone ever told you that?"

He smiled. "You're stalling. You said anything I wanted within reason."

"Of course, you are the guy whose big dream is to own MacGyver's leather jacket."

He reached over and caught her jaw in his fingers. "Kiss me, Selina."

Fury flashed through her eyes, and she batted his hand aside, then swiftly leaned down and crushed her mouth against his. Before she could pull away he slipped one arm around her neck and the other around her waist. For a moment, she resisted, and then her frustration disappeared and she came willingly, melting provocatively against his chest, and coaxing her way past his lips in a manner calculated to send his temperature through the roof.

Just as he decided he could afford to give up breathing entirely, she lifted her face away, flushed but smug. "Well, how do I rate?"

Bruce made a tremendous effort and evened out his breathing. "Oh …" A wicked smile curved his mouth. "About four and a half."

For a moment he thought she would smile back, but she only raised one delicately arched brow and said, "I'm sorry our service is so unsatisfactory. We shall have to try to do better. Although next time …" She trailed a finger along his jaw line, and he had to stop himself from catching her hand and pressing a kiss into her palm. "It might help if you shaved." She tapped his chin and slipped off the bed.

"Going so soon?"

"Some of us actually have work to do. I'll see you later."

"Promise?" he asked, offering his most engaging smile.

An expression he couldn't quite read crossed her face. "I never go back on my word," she said, and left.

Bruce collapsed back onto his pillows and let out a long, slow breath. He tried to clear his mind and figure out what she had really come for, but in the end he gave up and lay grinning at the ceiling. _If this is four and a half, I can't wait to see ten._

* * *

Alfred sat alone in the Batcave, his fingers poised over the computer keyboard. With Richard at school and Bruce stuck in Luthor's hotel, he would never have a better opportunity to do what he needed to do. But still he hesitated, reluctant, because although he had done a lot of investigating over the years, much of it on his own initiative, he had never before felt like he was prying into his employer's personal business.

Shaking off his guilt induced paralysis, Alfred opened the master search program, the one connected to all of the databases which they had purchased access to or hacked into or built themselves. Selecting the ones he wanted to check first, he uploaded a snapshot taken at a reception the previous week and typed in 'Selina Kyle.'

The computers hummed as they began flashing through millions of gigabytes of information, and Alfred went upstairs to make himself a cup of tea while they worked. It wasn't that he was unhappy about the advent of Selina, he reflected as he waited for the kettle to whistle. In fact, he had been wishing for several years that someone like her would happen along, because Bruce needed … _something_. Something to inspire him to take more than a clinical interest in life. In the beginning, Alfred had hoped that the billionaire turned crime fighter might actually have fun with the playboy masquerade, that the partying and the scandals would serve as a release. But instead it remained only a chore, another source of tension. The only part of the life Bruce seemed to have taken to with enthusiasm was car collecting, and even with that, Alfred sometimes wondered if Bruce was only pretending for his sake.

Alfred strongly suspected that the only thing Bruce really cared about outside of his activities as Batman was Richard. Oh, he knew Bruce cared deeply about him and a very small group of friends, but in the end, Richard was the only one who _mattered_, because it was Richard and being Richard's guardian that kept Bruce from becoming completely lost inside the symbol he'd created. And if anything ever happened to the boy, and Batman took over …

"Heaven help us all," Alfred muttered, and took his tea back downstairs.

* * *

Selina shut the door of her suite and leaned against it, her knees suddenly weak. She was furious with herself, but she couldn't help it. Every time she went near Bruce Wayne, she lost the edge of her control, said more than she meant to, kissed harder than she intended. A slow smile crept across her face as she remembered the hard contours of his chest beneath her, and then she banished the sensation and pushed away from the door. She had an appointment in fifteen minutes for which she was not dressed, and a list full of things to accomplish before noon. The phone rang. She picked it up on her way to the closet, but froze as she heard the voice on the other end.

"_How are things?"_

"Everything is according to plan."

"_I'm pleased to hear it. Don't fail me."_

"I won't—" she started to say, but the line had already gone dead. She stood for a moment with her fingers clenched around the receiver. _I won't fail. I'm not failing, I'm falling. Falling in love. How can this be happening?_

* * *

On Friday during lunch, Johnny Zorello made his bid for the Bailey title of all time practical joker. Rick was standing at the end of the lunch line when a hand grabbed his elbow and hauled him away.

"Rick, my friend, you won't want to be standing there in about thirty seconds," Johnny informed him, smiling from ear to ear. "Stand over here where you can watch history being made instead of participating in it."

Rick watched curiously as Johnny jumped up on the deserted lunch table, which bore a sign reading 'Glue Drying Keep Off,' and began feeling in the air over his head. His face lit as his hand closed around something invisible, and he brought his fist down sharply. A sudden clap of thunder from hidden speakers rolled across the cafeteria, causing startled students to break off conversations and look upwards.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Bailey Prep," a voice boomed, "the weather is currently cloudy, with a chance of meatballs." This announcement was followed by another roll of thunder.

Johnny was looking expectantly at the ceiling over the lunch line and Rick followed his gaze, but when the ceiling tiles bulged, it was right over the table. Johnny looked up in sudden horror. "No. No!"

A gaping hole appeared in the ceiling as fifty pounds of cooked spaghetti, accompanied by tomato sauce and hundreds of meatballs, cascaded onto Johnny Zorello's head.

As the last meatball rolled to a stop, shocked silence pervaded the cafeteria, but it was quickly broken by snickers which escalated into an avalanche of laughter. "Hey Johnny," someone called out, "is that what the rich and famous are wearing these days?"

"Yeah, is spaghetti the new black?"

"Someone call Ralph Lauren!"

"Shame on you Johnny, don't you know there are children starving in Africa?"

"He should ship them these meatballs!"

"No, he should ship them to Ralph Lauren!"

As the taunts continued, Johnny sat down in the midst of the spaghetti and buried his head in his hands. "Weeks of planning, ruined!" he moaned. "I must have balanced it wrong so that it came down on the trigger instead of over the lunch line."

Rick didn't know whether to laugh or just start scraping off the sauce that had splashed all over his pants. But before he could do either, a new voice thundered through the cafeteria. "Enough!" Coach Bryant strode forward, reached out to grab Johnny, though better of it, and gripped Rick's sauce free shoulder instead. "Both of you come with me. March!"

They did double time out of the cafeteria and all the way to the principal's office, leaving a trail of red footprints and limp noodles. The secretary took one look at them and ran to find a towel to protect the carpet. Bryant pounded on a closed door and the principal emerged hurriedly. "What's all this?" he demanded, and then caught of the coach's prisoners. "What … please tell me there wasn't a food fight."

"Not exactly. I think it was a practical joke that backfired," the coach informed him. "But I'd better get back before it turns into a spaghetti war." He hurried out of the office.

Johnny said, "Sir, Rick didn't have anything to do with it. He just happened to be standing nearby."

"I see. So you, Mr. Zorello, are solely responsible for this … creative use of pasta?"

"Yes, sir."

"And will you tell me, please, _why_ you felt the need to dump food on your head?"

"Well, sir, it wasn't supposed to fall on me."

Mr. Richardson glared. "I see. Well, it is fortunate for you that things did not go according to plan, if, that is, you wish to receive your diploma at the end of this year."

"Ah, Miss Aylmer," he greeted the secretary as she hurried up with a towel. "Find a spare uniform for Mr. Grayson to change into so that he can return to class. Mr. Zorello, I'm afraid you will be leaving early today. Stay there until I can get your father on the phone." Richardson stormed back into his office.

"They laughed at me," Johnny said bitterly as they stood oozing onto the carpet.

"That is kind of the point of a joke," Rick offered.

"Only if they're laughing at other people. And besides that's the least of it. The point of a practical joke is to make people respect you, maybe fear you a little. If I …" He broke off as Miss Aylmer reentered with a clean uniform for Rick and a pass excusing his tardiness.

By the time he got the spaghetti splatters rinsed out of his hair, Rick was nearly fifteen minutes to math. He found the class laboring individually over the never ending fractions, and Ms. Simpkins sitting with Carmen. They both looked relieved as he entered, and Ms. Simpkins accepted the pass without even reading it.

"Check the right lower drawer of my desk. Carmen seems to be a visual learner, and I think there are some tools for teaching fractions in there," she ordered before hurrying to the other side of the room where a student was impatiently waving his hand.

Rick tugged open the drawer and found it full of stacking blocks, plastic divisible fruit, and other math toys. Pulling out a couple that looked slightly more entertaining than the rest, he started to push the drawer shut, causing to shift and tumble. A single word suddenly glared out at him from the cover of a book: RIDDLES.

Glancing up to make certain Ms. Simpkins was still busy, he pulled it out and read the whole title: _RIDDLES: The World's Greatest Unsolved Mathematical Mysteries_. Flipping it open he saw that it contained chapters on such classics as Mass Gap Hypothesis and the Poincaré Conjecture. Shoving it hastily back into the drawer, he went over to take his seat next to Carmen, his mind spinning. _So she's interested in math puzzles, she took the one I wrote for Alex, but that doesn't mean she's interested in other kinds of riddles, does it?_

He decided to take an in-depth look at Ms. Simpkins file when he got home, and plunged into the intricacies of multiplying fractions with the aid of a Velcro enhanced plastic apple.

* * *

"Go shopping with Sarah, have some girl bonding time," Barbara muttered in irritation as she flung open her locker door after school. "No way is he paying me enough for this. What was I thinking?"

"You could still get out of it," Trevor suggested.

"He already gave me the money. And he'll be pretty mad if I back out at this point. It's not worth it. On the other hand," she continued as she shoved her homework into her bag, "I'll probably make him even madder when I go and end up fighting with her. Which I will. It's like I can't help myself! She just totally rubs me the wrong way, you know?"

"Uh huh," Trevor agreed absently, not really listening. He didn't have to. They had had the conversation before.

"She doesn't even like Batman! How am I supposed to get along with someone who doesn't like Batman? How can Dad date her? Does he not see the irony here?"

"So are you going or not?" Trevor asked as she zipped up her bag and slammed the locker shut.

"I'm going, I'm going. But if I don't see you tonight, it's because I've been arrested for assault." She glumly walked with him down the hall toward the front doors, and, since they were in public, kissed his cheek before running out to the waiting car.

"Hi Barbara!" Sarah greeted from behind the wheel.

"Hey," she returned unenthusiastically, throwing her books into the back seat and fastening her seatbelt.

"How was school?"

"Fine."

Sarah waited until she had turned onto the main road before replying, "Oh come on, something interesting must happened over the course of the day."

Barbara made a point of not looking away from the window as she answered, "Johnny Zorello tried to pull a prank and ended up dropping a ton of spaghetti on his own head."

"That sounds interesting," Sarah said encouragingly.

"Mostly it was annoying. They had to reroute the cafeteria line, and we barely had time to eat. Plus, my project partner was involved, but fortunately somehow avoided getting himself suspended." They drove in silence for a minute and then Barbara forced herself to ask, "So how was your day?"

"If I say fine, you'll tell me something interesting must have happened, right?" Sarah said, laughing.

Barbara only shrugged, not willing to admit she had been hoping for a chance to turn Sarah's line against her, accompanied by a little sarcasm.

"Well, let's see. I booked a couple of guys for possession this morning, then let them out again this afternoon, but that really wasn't interesting. Oh, I know! The vending machine in the break room broke and dropped fifteen packages of those chocolate covered mini donuts. So we had a party. Was that interesting enough?"

"Sure," Babs muttered, and they spent the rest of the ride to Gladelands in silence.

They had to park on the very top level of the garage, and it was as they were standing in line for the elevator that Barbara suddenly realized her perpetual police shadows had disappeared. Suddenly nervous, she glanced around once again and whispered to Sarah, "You don't see guards my dad insists I need anywhere, do you?"

"They're not here. Jim told me how much they'd been getting on your nerves, so I talked him into letting them off duty for one afternoon. After all, you are shopping with a cop." She offered another of the ultra-friendly smiles she seemed to reserve especially for Barbara. Barbara knew she should say thank you, but the elevator arrived before she could work herself up to it, and in the flurry of movement the moment passed.

The aisles of Gladelands were packed, as they always were for major sales, and Sarah clung to the shoulder of Barbara's jacket to keep them from getting separated as they wormed their way through the crowd to the juniors formal wear.

"What kind of dress are you looking for?" Sarah asked as they pushed out of the mainstream of customers and stumbled against a half empty rack of rather limp looking dresses.

Barbara shrugged. "I don't know, just something new. Grab anything in a size four."

The two women loaded their arms with dresses and then fought their way over to the changing rooms where they had to stand in line for twenty-five minutes before they could get a stall. Sarah stood outside and rehung the rejected dresses as Barbara threw them over the top of the door. Finally the red head called out, "This one might be ok."

"Let me see," Sarah requested, shifting her armload of slippery fabric to keep it from slipping to the floor.

The stall door swung back and Barbara appeared in a strapless white silk dress that fell to just above her knees. A scarlet sash emphasized her slender waist and the length of her legs while the sheer white of the neckline made her green eyes and auburn hair seem startlingly vivid. Sarah, who had only ever seen Barbara in her school uniform or street clothes, was taken aback.

"You look great," she managed, suddenly feeling grubby in the jeans and sweater she had thrown on after her shift. "And with the red it's perfect for Valentines."

Barbara wrinkled her nose and looked at the price tag. "With Dad's contribution I guess I can afford it. Ok, let's go stand in line for half an hour." She ducked into the stall to change back to her own clothes while Sarah disposed of the unwanted dresses.

"Jim is helping you buy the dress?" Sarah asked as they forced a path to the cash registers. "That's sweet of him."

"Didn't he tell you?" Barbara replied, malicious amusement dancing in her eyes. "He didn't want to take me himself, so he bribed me into going with you."

Sarah's mouth opened in shock but before she could reply Barbara darted into line, just ahead of a woman with a shopping cart full of discounted socks. Sarah made her way around to the far side of the registers and waited. Half an hour later, as Barbara had predicted, she was finally through the line and ready to go. Miraculously, they got an elevator car all to themselves, and as they rose to the top level of the garage, Sarah finally spoke. "Look, Barbara, I know it's not easy for you to accept that your dad and I are seeing each other, but I promise you that I am not in any way trying to replace your mom …"

Barbara spun so fast the ends of her hair whipped out and caught Sarah on the cheek. "Replace my mom? That's what you think I'm worried about? Listen, _Sarah_, there's no way that you could _ever _replace my mother for one second. If I have a problem with you, it's because you're so completely below her it's pathetic. You may be Daddy's little squeeze right now, but the truth is that everyone is laughing at you because you're so completely out of your league."

The elevator doors opened, and a crowd of anxious shoppers began to shove their way in. Sarah, her face red with anger and humiliation, pushed out at the last second. Silently, the two women walked to the car and just as wordlessly drove home.

Gordon and Jimmy were hiding in the kitchen from the last of Jane's guests, eating leftover chicken salad sandwiches, when Barbara came in through the backdoor. "Is Grandma's club still here?" she asked, untying her scarf.

"Yeah, but they didn't eat all the sandwiches," Jimmy informed her holding out the plate. "Want one?"

"Sure." Barbara grabbed one and took a bite, still dangling her shopping bag in one hand.

Gordon watched cautiously. "So … good shopping trip?"

"Totally. I got the cutest dress! You'll just die when you see it!" She winked at him.

He smiled widely. "I can't wait!" Mentally, he patted himself on the back. _A little girls' time was just what they needed._

_To Be Continued_

**A/N **Fifty-one pages down, forty-nine to go!


	13. January: Presto

**A/N** I apologize for the shortness and tardiness (but only one day!) of this chapter. However, I shall try to have a longer one up by Saturday, which fills in some of the holes left by this one.

Thanks, as always, to all reviewers! I'm not able to reply to reviews at the moment, because I don't yet have Internet in my new apartment (thanks all of you who asked, my move went very well!) and have to depend on the public library which closes in one hour, but hopefully I'll get caught up with those sometimes this week.

Ok, no one has yet figured out the very long, very famous, very old English poem from which I'm borrowing a bit of plot. I'm not surprised—it was very hard to pick out in the last chapter, and I doubt I could have done it myself. However, the borrowing continues in this chapter, and will conclude in the next one, so keep thinking! And maybe go out and read a few old and famous English poems! As promised, I am giving you a clue which is: Green. Remember you must tell me both the title of the poem and the part of the plot I'm borrowing to win.

**Chapter 13**

_My fingers are distracting me!_

_-Philippa's Brother_

Richard and Alfred sat together at the table in the small kitchen, eating dinner. Years ago, the boy had persuaded the butler to eat with him when Bruce was absent, and they had some of their best conversations over full plates. Tonight, the strained atmosphere of the last few days had all but disappeared, as Richard related Johnny Zorello's spectacular spaghetti fiasco.

"And how did you enjoy your party last night?" Alfred asked.

Richard hesitated. He had told Alfred that he'd been invited to a birthday party and let the old man assume it was school related, but now, for a moment, the truth weighted down the tip of his tongue, ready to spring into the open. He hated keeping secrets from Alfred.

But then the butler reached into his pocket and produced a vibrating pda?, the astonishingly tiny machine that kept him connected to the entire Manor. After glancing at the screen he announced, "Master Wayne is home."

His almost spoken words dissolved into nothing, and Rick focused on cutting his steak, some of his easy relaxation slipping away. He wasn't naïve enough to think that because things felt back to normal with Alfred it meant they would be fine with Bruce too.

But a minute later, when they heard the distant slam of the side door to the garage, it was accompanied by whistling that became louder as it approached the kitchen. Richard and Alfred exchanged surprised glances, before the older man's face faded into his usual reserve. Rick dropped his gaze back to his plate, gritting his teeth in silent frustration.

"It's good to be home," Bruce announced, striding into the kitchen and snagging a plate on his way to the table. "There's always something a little off about hotel food." He reached for the corn, pausing to swipe at Richard's styled hair.

"Hey!" the boy snapped, batting the hand away. "Mess up your own hair for once, would you?"

"But that's no fun," Bruce explained as he filled his plate. "How was school?"

"Pretty good. I've started tutoring this girl in math."

Bruce looked pleased. "Hey, that's great! What's her name?"

"Carmen Leo. She said she'd go to the Valentines dance with me. As friends," he added hastily.

"Carmen Leo," Alfred repeated thoughtfully. "That's Matthew Fredrick's granddaughter, isn't it?" He and Bruce exchanged a glance that Richard didn't understand. "She's been living with them since her parents' divorce, which occurred while you were away, sir."

Bruce nodded and let the subject drop. "How was the birthday party?"

"Fine," Rick answered too quickly, startled that Bruce had remembered. "And how was the casino?" he asked, to divert the sudden sharp look in his guardian's eyes.

Bruce shrugged. "Average. Luthor told me he might destroy me in order to take over Gotham. But I have a Jacuzzi in my room."

Rick noticed that Alfred was not turning on Bruce the same sharp look Bruce had just used on Rick. Bruce's expression remained bland as he cut into his meat. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Alfred?"

Alfred looked as though he were about to speak, but the jangle of the telephone interrupted him, and he rose to answer it. "Wayne Manor." He listened to the receiver for a moment and then looked at Richard. "Miss Gordon for you, Master Richard. Shall I ask her to call back after dinner?"

"Uh … _Barbara_ Gordon?" Rick asked, not certain he'd heard right.

"The same."

"I'll take it now." He stood up too hastily, causing his chair to teeter dangerously, and grabbed the phone. "Hey."

"Rick, I need a favor," she said, in a low voice he could barely hear over the receiver.

"What's up?" he asked, restraining his impulse to promise her she could have anything she wanted.

"Could we work on the project at your house tomorrow afternoon?"

"Here tomorrow? Sure."

"Great. I'll see you at two." She hung up before he could respond.

Rick replaced the phone on its base and disciplined his grin before resuming his seat at the table.

Bruce looked at him curiously. "What did she want?"

"Yeah. She's coming over tomorrow so we can work on a group project." Rick did his best to convey the impression that it was absolutely no big deal. "She'll probably have her police tails with her."

"I'll inform the garage," Alfred promised.

"I hope she's not coming over too early," Bruce put in. "Because we're going out tonight."

Rick's face lit up—after last week's fiasco he had more than half expected that Robin would be indefinitely grounded, although he had patched his suit anyway, just in case. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And you'll need a heavy jacket. It gets cold in the desert at night."

Rick's expression melted into confusion. "Where are we going?"

"New Mexico." Bruce pushed back his chair and stood. "And hurry up. We're supposed to meet Fox at the company airport in forty-five minutes."

Three hours and forty-five minutes later, their small plane touched down on a tiny runway in the middle of the Mojave.

"Now will you tell me what we're doing?" Rick demanded as they unstrapped their seatbelts and headed for the door.

Bruce laughed. "I told you, we're going to look at a slide show of Mr. Fox's trip to Rome."

"Give the boy a break, Mr. Wayne. But Richard, it's really better if you wait until you see it," Fox said, his own excitement evident in his voice.

A man in a leather bomber jacket waited for them at the bottom of the exit ladder. He had long pale hands and a long pale face that drooped over the collar of his jacket in a way that reminded Rick of a rag doll. Fox grabbed the man's hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Chuck, how are you? Mr. Wayne, I'd like you to meet the best pilot I know, Mr. Charles Yeager."

"Are you sure about this, Fox?" Yeager asked slowly, eyeing Bruce and Richard with deep disapproval.

"It's Mr. Wayne's company, Chuck," Fox began, but Rick didn't hear what else he said, because he was staring hard at a low shape almost indistinguishable from the night. Walking slowly toward it, he saw that it had to be a plane, but it was so tiny it looked like a toy, or a UFO model for a geeky scifi film, an impression enhanced by the triangular shape of the wings.

"Do you fly that, Mr. Yeager?" Rick asked in an awed voice as the others came up beside them.

"Yep," the pilot answered laconically, pulling out two sticks of gum of gum and slowly folding them into his mouth.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Fox asked reverently.

Bruce nodded. "How many can it fit?"

"Two," Yeager said, but added grudgingly, "There's jump seats for two more, but they can't sit up straight.

"I don't think we care about that," Fox answered. "Chuck, why are we still standing on this runway?"

* * *

Bruce's eyes snapped open in the dim room. Turning his head, he glanced at the clock where green numbers glowed 8 a.m. Notwithstanding the fact he'd only slept for three hours, he was definitely awake. Not bothering to try and go back to sleep, he climbed out of bed and walked over to the window, which would have had a spectacular view had there been anything but drifting gray snow to see.

Last night had been superb. Not only had he avoided the problem of what to do with Robin, but the plane exceeded his expectations, even after Fox's exuberant buildup. He had finally persuaded a reluctant Yeager to show him the controls, and he couldn't help grinning as he remembered the way the engines responded to the lightest guidance, as fluid in air as a fish in water.

The door of his suite clicked open, and he turned, suddenly remembering Selina Kyle's probing remark about a plane the day before. He had told Fox, who philosophically replied that something was bound to get out, but that he was confident that "a new plane" was about as technical as Lex Luthor or anyone else was able to get.

Selina, wearing the same silken robe she had appeared in yesterday, paused in the archway to the bedroom. "Up so early?" she asked. "I was certain I'd have to wake you."

"Well, you know how it is, away from your own bed."

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I don't think I remember the last time I slept in my own bed."

"Where is your own bed?" he asked curiously. "You know where I live, but I just realized I don't have any idea where you come from."

She shrugged and walked forward to stand beside him at the window. "Everywhere and nowhere. I have several apartments, in the cities I visit most frequently. I suppose I'll acquire one in Gotham before long."

"And do you call any of them home?"

"No." She hesitated and then went on, "Home is … Well, I suppose home is wherever my father has settled for the moment. He's a restless man."

"You're lucky to have your father still living."

Her blue eyes were very dark. "Luckier than you know." Abruptly she shook back her long hair, as if to throw off her solemn mood, and the familiar mocking glint was back in her eyes. "You escaped gambling again last night. You know I can't let you get away with that."

"I was hoping you wouldn't," he returned, smiling easily. "I had fun yesterday."

"Yes, well, I unfortunately don't have time for the many thrills of Go Fish today. You'll have to be content with blackjack."

"Sure," Bruce said agreeably. "You set up while I shave."

"Feeling optimistic, are we?" she asked dryly, as she pulled out the fresh pack of cards housekeeping had left.

"Same stakes, right?" he called from the bathroom, plugging in his razor.

When he emerged, cheeks and jaw smooth, she was sitting at the small breakfast table, idly shuffling and reshuffling the cards. As he took his seat she made an elaborate show of offering him the deck to cut, and then dealt.

Bruce glanced at his cards—two kings. "I'll hold."

Selina looked at her own hand, picked another card off the deck and threw her cards down triumphantly. "Twenty-one."

"Too bad," Bruce said mildly. "Best of three?"

"If you like."

He picked up the cards, shuffled and dealt. Selina looked at hers and showed him an ace and a ten. "Twenty-one."

"Four out of seven?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't think so." Selina pushed back from the table and stood. "Once may have been chance. Twice is fate. Now let me think." She folded her hands behind her back and paced thoughtfully in front of him. "What do I most want from you? I don't suppose you learned anything new about the plane from Mr. Fox last night?"

"How'd you know I was at Fox's?"

"It's my job to know where you are when you aren't spending money here. I could ask you for that new German car you just spent six months getting through customs, although I don't find speed that big of a thrill."

"Do you know everything?"

"Yes. Now, I could ask you for a block of Enterprises stock, which is a very tempting idea, except that your stocks are locked up in a trust, and to release any of them you have to get the co-signature of one trustee. And I really doubt either Fox or your old butler are going to allow any shares to escape for a debt of honor."

"Seriously. You're starting to scare me."

Selina laughed. "What can I say? Lex wanted to know all about his biggest competitor."

"Oh, well that makes me feel so much better. I've always wanted Lex Luthor as a stalker."

"You're in very good company if it makes you feel any better."

"Not really," he muttered. "So, will you make up your mind already?"

She sighed. "It's harder than I thought it would be. So many things to choose from, and none of them anything I really want. I suppose you'd better kiss me."

Bruce stared at her in genuine surprise. "Huh?" He knew from her satisfied smile that she had said it as much to startle him as from any other motive.

"As they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do …" She slipped onto his lap and wound her arms around his neck. " … when in Gotham …"

"Do as I do?"

"You are the richest man in town," she murmured, brushing her lips against his jaw.

"Richer than Lex," he agreed smugly. "Better looking, too."

"Bruce, does anyone ever tell you that you're shallow?"

"Several times a day," he admitted, pulling gently on the sash of her robe so that the fabric fell away to reveal the match camisole she wore beneath. "It's really not a bad way to be. I have a lot of fun."

"Do you ever think about anything besides having fun?" she asked, allowing him to slip the robe off her shoulders.

"Mmmm, no, not really," he answered, dropping light kisses along her shoulder and the curve of her neck. "When we're done with this we should really check out the Jacuzzi."

"I can't. I have work to do," she answered, slightly breathless, her eyes closed.

"I thought I was your work," he protested, drawing back slightly.

"You're … you're only one of my …" Her eyes flew open. "Why are you stopping?"

He grinned. "Sorry." He planted a tiny kiss on the corner of her mouth, lightly drew his thumb down the ripples of her spine until she shuddered and closed her eyes again. "Sure you wouldn't rather find out about the new top secret plane?" he whispered mischievously.

Selina groaned. "Lex can do his own stupid research. Now will you please _shut up_?"

"Okay," Bruce agreed, and settled his mouth on top of hers.

Her lips parted immediately, and he had distinct impression of falling as he forgot everything but her weight against him, her rich sweet scent, the heavy curtain of her hair that seemed to twist itself around him until the world was nothing but a cloud of blackness, as her mouth pulled him urgently onward and inward, to drown in deep pools of heat.

Bruce felt cold air strike his chest before he realized she was gone, and opened his eyes to find himself alone in the bedroom. He made it to the archway just in time to hear the door to the hall click shut, but before he could follow, his eyes were caught by the pad of hotel stationery abandoned by the door, and he had to laugh as he interpreted the single symbol scrawled there.

8

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Reviewers clearly respond well to bribes, since last week's extra tempted quite a few of you into the open! I'll have to do it again sometime. If anyone reviewed last chapter but did not receive the extra (I'm very, very sorry if this happened, but I lost track with my patchy Internet access) let me know, and I'll get it to you ASAP!

See y'all Saturday!


	14. January: Romantic

**A/N **I know this is a day late, but I really did try! I finished the chapter at about ten last night, and then I wandered around for an hour and a half trying to find Internet! (That does include the time it took for me to get lost several times—everything looks so different in the dark—and by the time I got home I was so flustered it took two bacon and tomato sandwiches to soothe my nerves.) Today, when I left to go to the library, it was in pouring rain, and in the walk from the parking lot to the building, I got soaked. Then the computer I logged on to wouldn't recognize my USB drive, and before I could log onto another one, the library closed! But then my bad luck finally ran out, because the English building was open and the grad student lab unlocked. Thank goodness! I might have started sobbing right there on the sidewalk otherwise.

Congratulations to Nightarcher210 for being the first to correctly guess Sir Gawain and the Green Knight! The prize for the contest is a Batman one shot which I will write to her specifications. However, everybody gets to read it.

This chapter might read a little weirdly because although it is longer than the last one I hit a writer's block and wanted to go ahead and post rather than delay the update until I work through it. So consider this as part one, and the next chapter will hold the missing scenes.

Finally, I'm sorry about the confusion at the end of last chapter. The note Selina left for Bruce was the number 8, which was supposed to be her rating for the kiss, but I thought as I was writing it that it was going to be confusing, but I was in a hurry and didn't fix the problem. Clearly, I should have!

**Chapter 14**

_But the lady, as love would allow her no rest,  
And pursuing ever the purpose that pricked her heart,  
Was awake with the dawn, and went to his chamber  
In a fairflowing mantle that fell to the earth,  
All edged and embellished with ermines fine;  
No hood on her head, but heavy with gems  
Were her fillet and the fret that confined her tresses;  
Her face and her fair throat freely displayed;  
Her bosom all but bare, and her back as well,  
She comes in at the chamber-door, and closes it with care,  
Throws wide a window—then waits no longer,  
But hails him thus airily with her artful words, with cheer:  
"Ah, man, how can you sleep?  
The morning is so clear!"  
Though dreams have drowned him deep,  
He cannot choose but hear._

_--__Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_

"Grandmother! I cannot take Jimmy to Wayne Manor!" Barbara exclaimed in exasperation. "I'm going over to do homework, I can't drag a third grader along."

Jane gave her granddaughter a hard look. "We've been over this, Babs. He can't come with me because they don't allow children in the salon, and he can't sit in my car like he usually does, because you're borrowing it. Of course, you could always tell your father you've changed your mind about spending the afternoon with him and Sarah and postpone your studying."

"So is he supposed to sit in the car all afternoon?"

"I'm certain they have a corner where he can sit and play his Gameboy without disturbing anyone. Now, are you ready to go or not?"

"I'm ready, I'm ready," Barbara muttered, pulling on her coat. After she'd told her dad, somewhat misleadingly, that yesterday's shopping trip had gone well, he'd announced that he'd been given tickets to a matinee at the Gotham playhouse. He was taking Sarah and he was sure he could get another ticket if Babs wanted to come along. Sarah hadn't had a chance yet to tell him about their bitter exchange at Gladelands, but Barbara was certain she would the moment she had his ear, and Barbara didn't want to be around for the aftermath. So she had given the first plausible excuse she could think of, which was that she had to work on a school project, and when her dad suggested that they at least all have dinner together, she was forced to elaborate on the lie by saying she was going to Wayne Manor, and there was no telling how long things would take. Which led to her having to borrow her grandmother's car so that she wouldn't be riding the train alone if she stayed until after dark, which meant she had to drop her grandmother off at her exclusive hair salon and take Jimmy. Trevor, her usual standby ride, had gone to L.A. with his dad on a weekend business trip, which was why she hadn't used him as an excuse in the first place.

Extremely irritated with the whole situation, she delivered Jane to her appointment and drove on in silence, except for angry mutters at other drivers who got in her way. Finally, a small voice from the backseat asked, "Are you mad at me, Babs?"

She sighed heavily. "No, Jimmy, I'm not mad at you. I'm just in a bad mood."

"I promise to be good. I won't make any noise."

"I know. You're good at being good, Jimmy." She turned her head to smile at him over her shoulder. "I'll try to stop being so grumpy." She returned her focus to the road and double checked her directions. "Wow, this is really out on the edge of the city, isn't it?" In fact, when they finally got off the freeway, she wasn't even certain they were in the same city. The usual cramped city streets she knew had disappeared, replaced with the impressive entrances to gated communities. Those, in turn, gave way to the snow covered stretches of a country club golf course, and, finally, a stone wall that seemed to stretch endlessly on. She almost missed the gate, set back from the road on a short drive lined with evergreen shrubs whose careful manicuring was evident even under the snow.

The gate itself was massive, black wrought iron with an ornate design twisting in its center. Barbara stopped in front of it, uncertain how to proceed. Was there a doorbell she should ring? A muffled voice outside her window made her jump, and then she saw the speaker set into an iron stand that matched the gate. Rolling down her window, she was in time to hear a polite voice repeat, "May I have your name, please?"

"Barbara Gordon."

"Thank you, Miss Gordon."

The black gates swung silently inward, revealing a winding drive lined with tall trees. Barbara drove slowly forward. "Toto, we're not in Gotham anymore," she muttered.

"Babs, is this a castle?" Jimmy whispered.

"Yeah, Jimmy, I think it might be." She rounded a curve and hit the brakes. "Whoa."

The trees ended, and a stately stone front, almost foreboding beneath the overcast winter sky, rose majestically over smooth lawns of snow so pristine it looked unreal. For a hysterical moment, Barbara wondered if the gardeners had to trim the snow as well as the hedges, and then she edged the car forward until it rested exactly in front of the broad ascending steps.

As if by magic, a uniformed valet appeared to open her door. Barbara climbed out, smiling uncertainly. He held out his hand, "May I have your keys, Miss Gordon?" She handed them over automatically and wondered if he was the same man who had opened the gate for her, or if there was another one in an identical uniform, who did nothing all day but wait for people to drive up.

"Thanks," Barbara said firmly, smiling. She took Jimmy's hand and walked confidently up the steps, suddenly glad he was with her and that she didn't have to face the imposing door at the top alone.

It swung open just as they reached the top step. "Good afternoon, Miss Gordon," said an elderly man in an impeccable black suit.

At least she knew who this was. Her father occasionally spoke with approval of Alfred Pennyworth, and it was common speculation that he ran the Wayne empire in his guise as butler. "Hi," she replied, relaxing a little beneath his kind smile and stepping into the warmth of the house. She noticed his gaze, inquiring but polite, resting on Jimmy and hastily explained, "This is my brother. There wasn't anyone to watch him at home, so I had to bring him, but I promise he won't be any trouble. He's really very good, for eight. I … I hope it's not a problem."

"Not at all, Miss Gordon. There are still a few ways for a boy of eight to enjoy himself in this house. Now, if you'll follow me, Master Richard has instructed me to show you up to the schoolroom."

_Master__ Richard? You have got to be kidding me._

* * *

"You do like plays, don't you?" Gordon asked in sudden concern as they sat waiting for the first curtain to go up.

"Oh yes. I mean, I don't spend every weekend at the theater, but I always enjoy a good show." Sarah smiled at him over the top of her program.

"You seemed a little quiet. I was afraid you'd come along just to be polite."

She smiled again and shook her head, but offered no other explanation for her subdued mood. Gordon was wondering whether he ought to probe her about it when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and groaned as he looked at the number. "One afternoon, that's all I ask!" he declared. "Hopefully this won't take long," he added for Sarah's benefit before standing and edging his way out of the aisle.

In the hallway outside he flipped open the phone and snapped, "O'Hara, what is it?"

"I'm really sorry, Chief … Commissioner …"

"Skip the formalities, what's wrong?"

"The Gotham Museum of Art's been robbed."

"In broad daylight?" Gordon asked in disbelief.

"No, sir. That is, they don't think so."

"They don't _think_ so?"

"They didn't realize the stuff was gone until today. But their best guess is last night. Or possibly Thursday."

Resigned, Gordon asked, "What was taken?"

"Well, that's the bad part, sir."

"The first part wasn't bad?"

"The pieces taken didn't belong to GMA. They were part of a borrowed collection from Egypt."

"So what you're telling me is, we may have an international incident on our hands?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Great. Just great," Gordon groaned, resting his head against the wall. A passing usher looked at him curiously, and he lowered his voice. "What, exactly, was taken, and why didn't they know it was gone?"

"The collection was delivered Thursday afternoon. Two of the curators inventoried everything and then locked it in the museum vault. They opened the vault today to start getting the stuff ready for exhibit, which is when they found the collection's prize pieces missing. The collection as whole is made up of sacred artifacts, things used in temples and stuff like that, but everything taken was jewelry, and it was all connected to this one goddess, uh, I've got it written down here … Bastet. She's the cat goddess."

"The cat goddess," Gordon repeated. "Do you think …"

"It seems like an awfully big coincidence, sir."

"And we've got nothing on her," Gordon mumbled as he hung up and headed back for his seat, stumbling a little in the now dark theater.

"Any disasters?" Sarah whispered as he sat down beside her.

"No disasters," he muttered back. "Just a little problem with animal control."

* * *

Batman finished securing the last mobster's bonds and tossed him on to the top of the heap. Just because there was a serial killer on the loose, it didn't mean the crest of city's crime came to a halt, and although this particular gang had stayed beneath the police radar for a over a year, they'd recently gotten ambitious with their little drug racket. They'd had a meeting that night to discuss possibly breaking into the business in a second city, and Batman had picked them off as they emerged afterwards. And after the weeks of frustrated investigation into the Riddler, it felt good to be doing something concretely useful.

He picked up a cell phone that had fallen from the pocket of one of them during the struggle, dialed the police station and left the connected line next to the heap of groaning captives. He was about to unhook his grapple gun for a quick exit up when a voice purred, "Well, what have we here?"

Dropping into a defensive crouch, he saw Catwoman leaning casually over the rail of a fire escape, examining his handiwork.

"You should really pick on someone your own size," she added. "Six against one is hardly fair."

Straightening up, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, staring up at her. If he lunged, she would run away, beginning an exhausting and hazardous chase that would no doubt end with her escape. If he was going to catch her, he was going to have to try a different game.

"You could have jumped in," he growled.

"The game was over before I got here," she said with mock sadness. "But next time, I'll be sure to help even the odds."

They stared at each other for a minute and then he demanded, "What do you want?"

"I was looking for you. I didn't have anyone to play with and I was bored."

"I'm afraid I don't have time to play."

"That's too bad, I—"

The end of her sentence was lost as a terrific boom rattled the windows and caused the lid of a nearby dumpster to crash down. Out the end of the alley, they could see a new orange glow adding to the dirty night sky.

"Now that sounds exciting!" Catwoman exclaimed, leaping up on the rail of the fire escape and peering toward the flames. "I'll see you there." In a moment she was gone, slithering up the ladder and disappearing on the roof.

Batman didn't wait to watch her exit; he was already running.

The fire was only a few blocks away and when he arrived the fire truck sirens were still wailing in the distance. An apartment building was burning brightly, from a gas line explosion by the smell of it, and people were pouring out of the neighboring buildings to crowd the street. Flames engulfed the front door of the burning building, but he saw a few dazed people staggering around the side, from the fire escapes.

Batman shoved his way through the crowd and ran between the buildings. No flames were visible here, but unnatural heat seeped through his suit. Frantic people were crawling down the fire escapes, shoving each other in their haste. Three stories up, a woman screamed as she lost her grip on the ladder and fell, and he was just in time break her fall. Dropping her in a bank of snow, he shot his grapple gun up and entered through a window that was above the fire.

Indoors the heat was intense, and he knew he would have only minutes before the entire building collapsed. The apartment he entered was empty as were the other two on this landing. Down the stairwell, he could see the flames licking up the steps from the second level. If anyone was down there it was too late to help them. Grimly, he raced upward.

Floor four was empty, but on five he discovered an elderly woman in a wheelchair, her head bowed over the worn Bible she clutched. She looked up in surprise as he burst in. "Is that you devil? I was expecting somebody else." She shrieked as he tossed her over his shoulder and ran for the window, delivering a few surprisingly powerful whacks with the word of God. "Put me down, Satan!"

On the ground he thrust her, still fighting, into the arms of a shocked firefighter and then shot back up and continued his frantic race through the apartments, feeling the structure shudder beneath him as beams buckled and gave way, knowing he wouldn't have time to search every place. On floor six, he found a terrified man paralyzed on the window sill while the firefighters holding the net below shouted at him to jump. Batman gave him a ruthless push and was on to the next apartment before the guy's terrified scream had ended.

As he burst into the first apartment on floor seven he could hear a child screaming, but before he could go more than two steps inside, a piece of wallboard fell across his path, its interior flaming. The room's furnishings exploded with fire, and he was frantically searching for a path through when a dark shape appeared on the other side of the flames. "Catch!" a woman's voice shouted, and then a small body was sailing over the inferno into his waiting hands. Tucking the screaming toddler beneath his arm he ran up a flight of stairs that threatened to give way beneath his feet and found a clear window, with, miraculously, a fireman's net waiting beneath it. Fervently hoping the kid wouldn't be hurt by the fall, he dropped it and turned to try and race through one more apartment, when a voice at the open window said, "Everything above is clear."

He spun back and found Catwoman clinging to the sill. An explosion shook the building and one of her hands slipped. He darted forward and caught her, dragging her up and over the sill.

"What are you dragging me back in here for?" she demanded, shaking off his arm and climbing back onto the window. "It's a little hot even for my tastes." With that, she gave a powerful leap, landing on the low roof of a neighboring building. Batman followed, using his cape to glide a few feet beyond her, and as his feet touched the roof, the building they had just escaped from collapsed with a roar. He ducked a piece of glowing debris, and when he straightened, found that Catwoman had lunged backward to within a few feet of him. He would never have a better opportunity to attack, but he hesitated to move so quickly against someone who had just fought with, instead of against, him, and then she turned.

"How was that for a first date?" she asked, echoing in some way his own thoughts. "You certainly know how to show a girl a good time."

He lunged and she ducked away, taunting, "Same old, same old. But if you really want to give me a goodnight kiss, well, how can I refuse?" And with that she spun in and delivered an explosive kick to his solar plexus that caused him to stagger backwards, bright lights flashing before his eyes. When they cleared she was, of course, gone.

* * *

Heat splashed in his face and Bruce flew out of bed, ready to face the threat. He found Selina Kyle pointing a gun at him, and as he met her eyes, she pulled the trigger.

A stream of hot water dampened his t-shirt, and she laughed. "Convincing, isn't it?" She dangled the all too realistic water gun by its handgrip. "Lex got it as a party favor in Mexico."

Bruce dragged a hand over his wet face. "You scared the crap out of me."

"It's a good thing I wasn't really trying to assassinate you."

"No kidding." The adrenaline rush faded and he was left feeling exhausted. It had been nearly six by the time he had returned to the hotel after going home to scrub the smoke from his body and assume the appearance of a playboy who had been partying hard somewhere else, and then he'd had to get a desk clerk to let him into his room because he'd somehow left his keycard back at the Manor. Now it was—he glanced at the clock—7:58. He fell across the bed and buried his face in his pillow. "I'm too tired to play blackjack," he said in a muffled voice. "I'm too tired to do anything."

"I suppose I'll have to sit in your Jacuzzi all by myself then."

Bruce sat up, but she was already in the other room. The Jacuzzi had its own little section of the suite, surrounded by green plants and soft frosted windows, and by the time he got there she was sitting in the water as the jets bubbled up around her. Her hair was held up by an elaborate gold headpiece and a golden net, and she rested her neck against the edge, her eyes closed in a perfect expression of relaxation.

He stood there, watching her, and at last she said without opening her eyes, "You don't have to get in, but stop gawping like a Neanderthal. You're throwing off my karma."

"Sorry," he apologized and lowered himself into the hot water, still in the boxers and t-shirt he had worn to bed. It was fortunate he was notorious for swimming fully dressed because there was a very noticeable bruise in the shape of a boot print decorating his stomach. He settled back and imitated her, with his head resting on the side and his eyes closed.

A splash across the bridge of his nose brought his eyes back open and he saw Selina smiling mischievously, the muzzle of her gun sticking just above the surface of the water. Growling, he reached over to pull it from her unresisting hand and toss it over the edge.

"You don't like guns?"

"No," he mumbled, sinking back and closing his eyes, waiting to see what she would do next.

"Bruce, you are unbelievable," she declared after a moment.

He looked at her wry expression and asked, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"All weekend, you've been trying to get me in here, and now that you have me where you seemed to want me you sit there looking half dead, with your clothes on."

"It's a bad thing then."

"Bruce, do I have to do _everything_?" she asked in exasperation.

"No," he replied softly, and reached out a hand. Meeting his eyes seriously, she grasped it, and he tugged her gently across the small pool. She floated across and balanced on his lap, sitting on her heels. Now that she was close, he could see how the brief lines of her swimsuit hugged her curves, leaving enticing stretches of skin bare. One tiny voice of reason warned him that if he didn't want this to get out of control, he should stop, now, but it was drowned out the moment he placed a hand at the base of her neck and let his fingers trail down the silky skin of her back.

"I found an apartment yesterday," Selina said, placing her hands on his shoulders and leaning forward so that her forehead rested against his.

"Did you?" he asked, a little absently, as his hand drifted down, over the curves of her waist and hip.

"Yes, I'll be settled in in a couple of weeks, after my trip to Metropolis."

That caught his attention, "You're leaving for Metropolis?"

"Yes, business. But it won't be long. And when I get back …"

Her lips just brushed his as she spoke, and it was beginning to make him crazy. "When you get back?" he prompted automatically, one hand going up to loosen the gold net that confined her hair.

"You should come over for dinner."

He couldn't take it anymore. Curving his hand around the back of her neck, he purposefully closed the last centimeter between their lips, but she turned her head and he ended up with his mouth mashed against her ear.

"Will you?" she insisted.

"Will I what?" he asked, dazed and frustrated.

"Will you come over for dinner?"

"Yes, yes, I promise," he said fervently, trying a second time for her mouth.

She dodged again. "I don't believe you. You're always promising you'll go places, and then you forget to show up."

He caught her jaw in his hand. "I won't forget."

"Maybe," she conceded, "but I'd better give you a reminder." She reached up and with a practiced twist released her hair ornament. "Keep this for me until you see me again. And be careful with it, it's old."

"I'll treat it like a baby," he swore, stuffing it into a convenient plant so that he wouldn't drop it in the water.

"I _think_ that's a good thing," she responded, and then she slipped her legs around him and settled against his chest. He caught his breath as she found the hem of his t-shirt and began to pull it upward. "Bruce, nobody, absolutely nobody wears a t-shirt in a Jacuzzi."

Without a second thought he lifted his arms and let her tug the wet fabric over his head, thinking in a very faraway corner of his mind that he told lies every day, and he could surely make one up to cover a silly bruise. Selina tossed the t-shirt onto the floor with a splatter, and then, and only then, did she allow him to claim her mouth.

He kissed her urgently, crushing her against him, and the drowning sensation that came when she was in his arms washed over him. They slipped deeper into the water, and he thought that this time he might actually drown, and then he couldn't think about it anymore …

"Bruce!"

The furious shout cut through the silence of the suite, and he jerked upright breaking the kiss, shocked, to see Richard Grayson.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** I think that's the best cliffhanger I've had in a while. Review, review! Next update is scheduled for next Saturday.


	15. January: Rubato

**A/N** Happy Halloween! And bunches of bat shaped balloons to all of you who left reviews and sent me such encouraging notes! Suffice it to say that if it hadn't been for them, you might still not have this chapter. Thank you!

By the way, because the timeline is skipping around a little here, I just wanted to remind everyone that the last chapter ended on Sunday morning.

**Disclaimer** See Chapter 1.

**Chapter 15**

_My trust,  
Like a good parent, did beget of him  
A falsehood in its contrary, as great  
__As my trust was ...  
_

_- __The Tempest_

It was Saturday morning, and Rick was having a good dream. In it, he sat alone at the controls of the new plane, with an empty sky and no place in particular to go. His engines were all but silent as he banked to the left and then the right. He swooped down over Wayne Manor until the belly of the plane brushed one of the tall pines lining the drive and then he shot up, straight up through the clear blue sky in perfect silence until he could see the black of space through the thinning atmosphere. The machine was still effortless, driving up so smoothly it was though it were being pulled into space. The last wisps of cloud tore past and he was almost there … three … two … one …

Rick opened his eyes and grinned up at the ceiling of his bedroom. The dream was almost as good as the real thing had been last night. The plane was so tiny, so silent, and so phenomenally fast that it was better than having your own set of wings. And Yeager … the man might look like Raggedy Andy in a bomber jacket, but when he folded his floppy body into the pilot's seat and wrapped his hands around the controls, you couldn't imagine him being anywhere else. And the way he flew … After the first hour, Bruce, with Fox's help, had talked his way onto the copilot controls. And it wasn't that he did badly; the actual controls were simplicity itself, and Bruce caught on to the machine's particular nuances right away, even with Yeager hovering over his shoulder and muttering, "Lighter, lighter." Rick squinted at the ceiling in concentration, trying to articulate to himself the difference between the way the two men had handled the plane. Bruce's flying was very efficient. He gave the plane a command, and it obeyed him instantly and forcefully. But when Yeager had the controls it was more like he waited for the plane to suggest their next move, and only then did he add his own ingenuity. It was almost like dancing.

Rick rolled over and looked at his clock, which read 10 a.m. He yawned, trying to remember what homework he had to get done today, and then he remembered. Barbara Gordon was coming over. Suddenly filled with nervous energy, he bounded out of bed and threw on jeans and a t-shirt, ran into the bathroom to comb his hair, ran back out to switch to a button-down shirt, darted back into the bathroom to fix his hair again, and finally headed for the stairs and breakfast. Fifteen seconds later he burst back into his room, changed into a different t-shirt, and took his comb with him.

Alfred was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea. Rick sat down across from him and tried to eat breakfast slowly, reminding himself that two o'clock was still several hours away. Finished eating, he stood up and then, as though the thought had just occurred to him said, "Hey, when Barbara gets here, will you just show her upstairs? You don't have to stick her in the library and announce her or anything."

"Yes, Master Richard," agreed Alfred, not hiding his amusement.

"I just don't want her to think we're weird snobs or anything," Rick said defensively.

"I quite understand. I assume you will work in the schoolroom?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm going to start on my homework." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Rick wandered away, elaborately casual.

He succeeded in accomplishing almost nothing at all on his homework, spending most of his time wandering aimlessly around the second floor. He found himself looking at things with new eyes, trying to imagine how they would seem to Barbara, and suddenly realized that this was the first time he could remember having a friend anywhere near his own age come to the Manor. If he hung out with other teens, it was at the country club, or a party, or some downtown hotspot. Not that there was any rule against bringing friends home, but there was no one he'd ever particularly wanted to invite. He thought suddenly of Niko Pappas, wondering what his reaction would be if he knew Rick lived in a house bigger than his entire apartment building. Angry, probably, at being misled.

He thought again of Barbara and then, irritated with himself, went down to the caves to pull up Ms. Simpkins' file. All of the faculty had extensive dossiers, and he'd been reading through them as quickly as he could, but, in true Bailey fashion, in alphabetical order. Now he skipped down the alphabet and opened the math teacher's file. Her credentials seemed ordinary, and she had accumulated several commendations for excellence earlier in her career. She had also, he noticed with some surprise, been teaching the advanced upperclassmen courses, until this year, when she had switched, or been switched, to mathematical elementals.

Curious, he searched through the file until he found a series of memos dated late last spring, documenting parent complaints against Ms. Simpkins. All of the complaints came from the same source, a Mr. Sterling Wren, and were regarding the teacher's alleged unfair treatment of his son, Trevor.

Rick leaned forward with new interest. Apparently, The Tren had been failing pre-calc until his father called the principal with the complaint that Ms. Simpkins harassed his son in class, making fun of him, and refusing him the help he needed to understand the material. Ms. Simpkins had denied the allegations, but a month before the end of the semester, she had been removed from the class. On a sudden hunch, Rick pulled up the school's financial records and discovered a sizable donation from Sterling Wren, along with one from a Paul Wren, school trustee and Sterling's uncle. A final search showed that Trevor had miraculously pulled a B in pre-calc.

_Well, what do you know about that? The Tren's daddy had to buy him a math grade_. Not that the information was of any practical use, but he couldn't help gloating for a moment over the thought of almighty Trevor failing something as basic as pre-calc. He felt sorry for Ms. Simpkins, though, who had apparently been exiled to animal math over her refusal to raise his grade. His mind returned to the main problem, and he frowned thoughtfully at the screen. Her demotion was humiliating, and she may even have grounds for a lawsuit against the school, but he doubted it was enough to push her into a state of violent psychosis. Still, it was interesting.

Glancing at his watch, he realized in surprise that it was after two, and then Alfred's voice spoke over the intercom, "Master Richard, Miss Gordon is in the schoolroom."

Rick ran for the lift. In the study he paused in front of a mirror, pulled out his comb and started to run it through his hair, made an irritated face at his reflection, chucked the comb in a corner and darted out of the room and up the stairs.

In the hallway outside the schoolroom, he paused for a second to recollect his calm. _She's just a girl_, he reminded himself firmly. _Just another silly girl_. The schoolroom was empty, and his eyes swept it in confusion for a moment before lighting on the connecting door to the next room which stood open.

"What's all this?" Barbara asked when she saw him.

Rick followed her gaze around the nearly empty room, trying not to think about how good she managed to look in a pair of jeans and an old sweater. The only furnishings were a table and two chairs and walls covered with whiteboards. Alex was a great believer in whiteboards for laying out complicated proofs, and shortly after he'd begun tutoring he had converted the room into a dry erase marker's dream world.

Currently, the boards were covered in the theory Rick had been working on with Monica in Wayne Tower, not pieces of the actual equation of course, which was not in any form to leave the premises, but supporting methodologies he needed to be able to read the proof. At Barbara's question he felt suddenly awkward and wished he had erased the boards before her arrival. He shrugged and said, "Math stuff."

"I can see that," she returned a little sarcastically, "but what's it for?"

A question he was under no circumstances allowed to answer truthfully. He really should have erased those boards. He did the next best thing and shrugged again. "I don't know. It's Alex's stuff."

"Who is Alex?"

"My tutor."

Barbara laughed. "You have, like, an actual mathematician to tutor you for high school math?"

"So?" he asked, a little defensively.

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's just … not my world, I guess. Hey, does your butler actually call you Master Richard?"

Rick felt himself turning red. "It's what he does. He's, you know, British."

"Yeah, I kind of noticed the accent." Shaking her head again she came back into the main schoolroom, and Rick gratefully shut the door on the telltale whiteboards.

**SSS**

Jimmy cast a look over his shoulder at the door of the schoolroom and reluctantly followed the old man in the suit down the hallway. To his relief, they only traveled a few doors down before stepping into another room. "You may play with anything in here that you like," the old man said, switching on the lights, "and if you need anything at all, just push this button right here, and someone will come."

Jimmy, staring in awe at the room in front of him, barely heard. The carpet was dark blue, almost black, and covered with figures of planets and stars. Along the walls stood wide shelves, not too high, that looked like they might have been lifted right out of the boy's section of Toys'R'Us. But what he couldn't stop staring at was the room's centerpiece: a broad, spiraling shelf curved upward, like a modernist Christmas tree, and on it rested the entire Star Wars universe, reproduced in Legos. There was the Millennium Falcon, both Death Stars, Luke's X-wing, Anakin's podracer, and dozens of cruisers and smaller fighting ships, not to mention a legion of battle droids, speeders, and everywhere, Jedi knights dueling it out with Sith lords and imperial troops.

Jimmy walked around the display with his mouth open, repeatedly whispering, "Cool! Oh dude, this is so cool!" After five minutes, he could no longer keep his hands away from the shelves and started pulling off ships with a view to constructing an epic battle. An hour later, when Alfred appeared in the doorway bearing a tray of milk and cookies, he was greeted with the sound of laser fire and the voice of General Jimmy Gordon ordering the rebel ships to "Retreat, retreat, it's an ambush!"

Alfred stepped carefully over a small cluster of X-wings and deposited his burden on a low table. "I thought you might care for a little snack."

"Thanks," Jimmy said happily, recklessly abandoning his troops as he discovered he was starving. "What's your name?" he asked as soon as his mouth was full.

Alfred settled into a chair beside him. "My name is Alfred."

"Mine's Jimmy," Jimmy said, finishing his cookie and reaching for another one. "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do. I live and work here."

Jimmy nodded, and by some process of association in his third-grade mind found it suitable to declare, "My dad's the police commissioner."

"And a fine man he is for the job, too," Alfred declared warmly.

Jimmy nodded but had to swallow before he could add, "He catches all the bad guys in Gotham. Batman helps him."

"That's a lot of work for the two of them to do."

"Sarah helps too," Jimmy informed him, polishing off his third cookie. "She's a detective. I like her, but Babs doesn't."

"I see," Alfred replied noncommittally as Jimmy drained his milk glass and sat back with a satisfied sigh. "If you're finished eating, I thought you might enjoy a nice swim in the pool."

Jimmy's eyes grew huge. "You have a pool?" Then his face fell. "I don't have my swimsuit."

"I'm certain there's an old one of Master Richard's you can borrow. Shall we go?"

"Yeah!" Jimmy ran for the door, but stopped when he tripped over a battle cruiser. "I guess I should clean up?" he asked, looking ruefully around at the aftermath of interplanetary conflict.

"I think we can leave it, just this once," Alfred replied, winking slyly.

Jimmy grinned and bolted out the door before he remembered that he didn't know where he was going.

**SSS**

Moving with slow precision, Barbara gathered the sheets of their report together and stapled them. In three hours of steady work, they had not only finished the project, but using the obviously expensive computer and printer in the schoolroom had created supplementary diagrams and designed a fancy cover sheet. They were going to get an A+, Barbara knew, but she wished it had taken them just a little longer to accomplish. Her dad had said he would call when the play was out, to see if she was available for dinner, and to be safe she needed to avoid going home for another hour.

She carefully put the finished report in her folder and looked up to find Rick watching her. He was, she realized, waiting to see what she would do next, and she thought quickly. That he found her attractive had been obvious from the first time she had met him, and she had been annoyed, although he wasn't as bad as some of the boys at Bailey who didn't even try to hide their stares. But now she thought she might be able to turn it to her advantage. Smothering the small voice of her conscience, she offered a friendly smile. "I can't believe we got so much done. It's not so bad, having a sophomore for a project partner."

A faint flush stained his fair cheeks, but he smiled back and said, "Can't let anything happen to your four point."

"I appreciate that. So …" She stood and looked at him inquisitively. "Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, can I get the tour?"

"Of the house? Sure. What do you want to see?"

You had to have an awfully big house, Barbara thought, to be able to give a selective tour. Out loud she said, "Oh you know, all the stuff normal people don't have in their residences."

Rick nodded decisively. "Right. Nothing normal, got it. If you'll follow me, we'll begin our tour of the wild and weird in Wayne Manor."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but went. Anything was better than sitting across a dinner table from her dad and his girlfriend.

They walked a short ways down the hall and stopped. "Now," said Rick, gesturing to something that rested on a low table in a rather dim corner, "here you see something that I guarantee you no other house in Gotham, in fact no other house in the whole world, can claim to own."

Barbara leaned forward and examined the very ugly bronze bust of a woman with a long, hooked nose and what seemed to be a bird's nest on top of her head. "Is that a … hat?"

"Nobody is sure. Alfred thinks it was meant to hold flowers. Personally, I think it was just a mistake. Unfortunately, it was one of the few things to survive the fire seven years ago. Rumor has it that when Alfred discovered it, he tried to bury it back in the rubble, but a salvage crew uncovered it again."

"If everyone thinks it's so ugly, why don't you just get rid of it?"

"Because, when you've kept something for a hundred and thirty years, you're not allowed to throw it away anymore. Besides, it's modeled on the head of one of Bruce's ancestors and it's got her ashes inside."

Barbara looked from the bust to Rick. "You're kidding."

"Well, that's what Bruce told me. I suppose we could always break it open and see." He smiled mischievously. "Ever wanted to be a grave robber?"

"Not really." Barbara edged away from the urn. "You know, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

Rick looked at her innocently. "Oh?"

"Yes. I was thinking more along the lines of … the swimming pool. Or Mr. Wayne's car collection."

His look was blank. "You don't have a pool at your house?" Barbara stared at him in disbelief, but before she could say anything his look of astonishment melted into a grin. "Kidding! I'm kidding. I guess I can show you the pool … if you're sure you wouldn't rather tour the family cemetery."

"Somehow, I think my life will go on."

They headed down to the ground floor, and when Rick pushed open the door to the pool room, Barbara couldn't help a small gasp of wonder. The sweet, rich aroma of Alfred's amateur greenhouse swirled around them, and light from the many lamps, necessary to keep the plants healthy during winter, was caught and refracted by the pool water, reflecting back in showers on the glossy leaves.

She stepped forward to smell the blossoms on a small, flowering tree, and the next moment was jumping back as a hard stream of water caught her cheek. "Oops, sorry Babs."

Barbara blinked away the water to find Jimmy smiling at her innocently, a large super soaker cradled in his arms. She shook her fist threateningly. "James Gordon Junior, you are in _big_ trouble." Shrieking, he ran away from her and jumped into the pool.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Gordon," and apologetic British accent spoke at her elbow, and she turned to find the butler offering her a towel. "I'm afraid he's been playing war games all afternoon."

"Thanks, and don't worry about it." She mopped her face with the towel and remembered to smile.

Alfred looked inquiringly at Rick. "Will Miss Gordon and Master Jimmy be staying for dinner, sir?"

Barbara managed not to snicker at the 'sir.' Rick shrugged casually. "I dunno. You want to stay for dinner?" he asked, turning to Barbara. "We're having …" He looked inquiringly at Alfred.

"Chicken Kiev and braised asparagus, with lemon meringue pie for dessert."

Barbara's enthusiasm was not entirely feigned as she answered, "Wow, that sounds amazing. Let me just call my grandmother and let her know."

Dinnner was ready (or 'dinner was served' Barbara supposed they said here) by the time Jimmy was coaxed out of the pool and dressed. Barbara had had involuntary visions of the three of them sitting alone at a massive table hundreds of feet long, lit by candlelight and weighted with silver and crystal. There may have been such a room in Wayne Manor, but the table they ate at was small and round, lit by electric light. And if the silverware felt suspiciously heavy, there wasn't a crystal goblet in sight. They were waited on by Alfred, which gave Barbara the uneasy feeling she ought to leave a tip beneath the edge of her plate, but everything else seemed perfectly normal.

The problem of dinner conversation was taken care of by Jimmy, who couldn't even wait to take a bite of his chicken before demanding of Rick, "Are all those _Star Wars_ Legos yours?"

"Yeah. You like _Star Wars_?"

"It's awesome!" Jimmy enthused. "You have all the best ships. Hey, do you remember that part when Anakin …" He launched into a detailed recall of his favorite lines and action moments, which took them all the way through the main course and into dessert.

Barbara supposed she should shut him up, but then she would have to think of things to say herself. And Rick didn't look bored—he was listening to everything Jimmy said, occasionally supplying the forgotten half of a quotation or some technical detail about starships. Barbara suddenly thought that Trevor would never have been so patient or so kind, and then she felt irritated with herself. What reason did she have to compare the two boys?

They were deep into their pie when Alfred reappeared. "Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Fox is on line one. He's asking for you and he says it's important."

"Thanks, Alfred, I'll take it in the library." Rick shot a brief, apologetic smile at Barbara as he stood up. "Excuse me."

Again, the involuntary comparison to Trevor flashed into her mind. T was charming, but he was not particularly polite, except when he was trying to impress her grandmother. She had to admit that for a fifteen-year-old male specimen of the species, Rick wasn't bad.

They had finished their dessert by the time Rick reentered the room. Barbara stood before he could sit down. "We really should get going. It's getting late."

He nodded and pressed a small button on the wall she hadn't noticed before. "Alfred, could you have the garage bring Miss Gordon's car around?"

"Of course, sir," a British accent crackled back out of the hidden intercom.

Barbara couldn't help giving her head a tiny shake of amazement before she said, "Thanks so much for dinner and letting us use your computer for the project."

He shrugged. "No problem. We can use it anytime we need to."

"Cool," she replied, a little uncomfortably. She doubted she would be coming back. _Unless Dad tries to finagle me into another dinner_. "Come on, Jimmy. Let's …" She turned around just in time to catch her little brother licking meringue off his plate. "James Gordon! You are not a dog!"

He set the plate back on the table with a thump and a guilty look. "Sorry, Babsie."

"Come on," she ordered, holding out her hand.

He reluctantly pushed away from the table. "Can we come back sometime?"

"Jimmy!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

Rick laughed. "You're both welcome anytime." He led the way to the front door, where Alfred was already waiting with their coats.

Warmly bundled, she said good night and took Jimmy's mitten to lead him down the steps to where the car stood, engine running and headlights on. The valet opened their doors, and when Barbara was seated she glanced at the instrument panel and saw that where the gas tank had registered half empty it was now full. "Unreal," she said out loud. "Completely unreal."

She put the car in gear, glancing back up at the front of Manor. The door still stood open, and she could see Rick silhouetted in the golden light that streamed around him, watching them. _The prince in his castle_, she thought at first, but then, as her eyes traveled up over the dark and looming house, she realized how very small he seemed as he stood there. She wondered what it was like to live in the midst of so much space, room after empty room with no one to turn the lights on and fill them with voices.

Letting her foot off the brake, she began the winding drive back to the road, trying to shake off the odd feeling of melancholy that had suddenly possessed her. In the back seat, Jimmy sighed contentedly. "Rick's house is the best," he declared. "Wait until we tell Dad!"

"It's pretty cool," Barbara agreed as the iron gates swung silently and magically open at her approach. "But you know what, Jimmy? I like our house better."

**SSS**

Rick watched Barbara's taillights disappear around the bend with a contented feeling. The afternoon had been very … nice. There had been nothing exciting and nothing catastrophic. Just hanging out. For a couple of moments, they had almost felt like friends. The only thing needed to make this a perfect day was for Bruce to magically appear and declare they were hitting the rooftops tonight. But that wasn't going to happen—his guardian had made it clear that the casino security and his status as celebrity guest made abandoning the party for a second night too risky.

Turning to Alfred Rick said, "I've got to go to Wayne Tower. Mr. Fox said he has a surprise for me."

Alfred looked curious. "An early birthday present, perhaps?"

"It's probably something to do with the think tank. Will you drive me?"

"Of course."

"Can I drive?"

"May I drive," Alfred corrected in a longsuffering tone. "And yes, you may, if you keep to the speed limit."

"I swear," Rick agreed, solemnly drawing a cross over his heart. He was as good as his word, keeping the needle pinned to the limit the whole way, despite the tempting hum of their powerful engine. "What's the point of having all this power if you can't use it?" he griped as he pulled into Bruce's reserved spot.

"To strengthen your self restraint," Alfred said prosaically as they climbed out. "Would you like me to wait, or will you call?"

"I'm not sure how long it will be, so I'll call. Thanks, Alfred."

Fox was waiting in his office. "Don't take your coat off," he said, standing up from his desk and reaching for his own outer wear.

"Where are we going?" Rick asked, confused.

"Back to New Mexico. Unless, of course, you'd rather not have a flying lesson from the best pilot in the nation."

Rick's jaw dropped, all thoughts of Barbara Gordon and Batman abruptly driven from his mind. "I-I'm going to … to _fly_? The _plane_?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, you are. Happy early birthday from me and the R&D personnel of Wayne Enterprises. But we've got to get going or we'll miss our flight."

**SSS**

The alarm clock was blaring sixties rock. Groaning, Rick hit the snooze and rolled face first into his pillow. Five minutes later, the music was back, louder than ever. Snarling, he punched indiscriminately at the buttons until the racket went away. Why had he thought it necessary to get up so early? Did he have to go to school? A minute of hazy thought revealed that it was Sunday, and that he had to get up because he hadn't done any homework but Life Skills all weekend. Because he'd been hanging out with Barbara and flying _The Plane_.

Rolling onto his back, he felt his mouth stretching into a smile despite the fact that he was still half asleep. As far he was concerned, it would always be _The Plane_. Flying it had been easy, so very, very easy—just a few controls, a light touch, an awareness of what the computer was doing. And the result had been far, far better than the dream he'd had about it. You could feel the speed as with slightest shift of your fingers you broke the sound barrier. And then broke it again. And again, until you were going so fast that you were nothing but motion, that all of your atoms had disbanded into pure energy. He understood now why Yeager was so reluctant to yield the controls to anyone else—it wasn't concern for the plane, it was sheer selfishness. Fox had had to practically haul him bodily out of the co-pilot seat and back onto the company jet.

Exerting a supreme effort of will, Rick climbed out of the bed and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. At peace with all the world, he ambled down the stairs and wandered into the kitchen. "Alfred, life is good."

"I couldn't agree more. But perhaps it would be a little better with addition of bacon and eggs?"

"Please," Rick mumbled around a yawn. He sat at the breakfast bar as Alfred began cracking eggs into a skillet. "What's this?" he asked suddenly, picking up a plastic card that lay on the counter. There was no writing on it, just the magnetic strip and a silver swirl across the front.

"That is Master Wayne's room key. He left here when he changed clothes last night. Or this morning, I should say."

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. "Was Batman out last night?" Rick asked, his voice so quiet and calm it shocked him.

"The details are in the paper," the butler replied absently, waving toward the table with the hand not occupied in stirring the eggs.

Mechanically, Rick slid off the stool and moved to the table, picking up the morning edition of the _Gotham Globe_.

**Blazing Building too Much for Batman**

_22 people were killed when an apartment building on the lower east side caught fire early this morning, despite the speedy intervention of firefighters and Batman …_

"Master Richard? Is something wrong?"

Rick looked up from the paper, but he barely saw Alfred's concerned face. "He told me he wasn't going out last night! He _lied_ to me!"

"Perhaps he had a good reason …"

Richard lunged to his feet, shoving his chair back so forcefully that it tipped over and smashed against the floor. "The hell with his reasons!" he shouted. "He needed me last night! There were hundreds of people in that building—he couldn't get them all by himself! He doesn't have any right to endanger their lives because he doesn't feel like taking me with him! So I got shot! So what? I'm not hurt and I should have been with him. He should have let me go with him!"

"Master Richard, lower your voice when you speak of such things," Alfred said, with more anger than Rick had ever heard directed toward himself.

He stared at the butler for a long moment, white-faced and shaking, then he snatched the key card off the counter. "Ok, maybe he has a reason. Why don't I go ask him, huh? Why don't I just go and ask him." He headed for the door.

"You cannot confront him outside of these walls," Alfred said sharply.

Rick spun back around, the color rushing back into his face as shock retreated, leaving only fury.

"What, so I'm just supposed to wait for him to decide to come home? He'll be avoiding me anyway. Half the time, I don't even know when he is here."

"Telephone him, then. Tell him he's needed. He'll come."

"Oh yeah? I'm not so sure of that. If it's something he doesn't want to hear, he'll just hang up. But he's not getting out of this one. Don't worry, I won't go giving away his precious secrets. But he's going to come home with me, and he's damn well going to explain why he …" Rick broke off and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled.

"Are you going to drive me, or do I have to take the train?"

Alfred met his gaze grimly, but Richard's eyes didn't falter. "Get your coat," the older man conceded.

Rick remained silent during the ride until they pulled up to the magnificent front of the casino, the telltale paper squeezed into a tight roll in his hands.

"Are you coming in?" he asked tightly, swinging open his door.

"I think it would be better if I waited with the car," Alfred replied. "He's in room 3209."

"Thanks," Rick muttered and slammed the door with more force than necessary. He stalked into the lobby, ignoring the stares of the desk workers, and used the room card to summon the elevator. Standing in front of Bruce's door he automatically lifted his hand to knock, then dropped it and jammed the key card into the lock. _He's probably still asleep. Well, it's time for him to wake up._

A fresh wave of fury washed over him as he shoved through the door. "Bruce!" he shouted, striding into the suite. There was a splash of water to his right, and he looked over and froze in shock. There was a Jacuzzi and Bruce was in it and there was a woman …

Rick jerked his face away, wishing he could sink down through all thirty-two stories of the hotel into the cold obscurity of the parking garage.

A woman's voice, rippling with amusement, broke the painful silence. "It appears someone is here to see you," she said, "and I have to get going. I'll see you when I come back from Metropolis."

If Bruce said anything in response, it was too low for Rick to hear. There came the sound of splashing water as she climbed out, and after another few seconds, the suite door opened and closed again behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Rick looked back at the hot tub. Bruce sat motionless and expressionless, watching him. Rick's fury returned full force, and without thinking, he hurled the rolled newspaper with superb accuracy so that it hit Bruce full in the face and fell into the water. "You lied to me," he accused, his voice shaking.

Still expressionless, Bruce picked up the dripping paper and looked at the headline. "How did you get here?" he asked, in a voice too obviously controlled.

"Alfred drove me."

"Go and tell him to drive you back."

Rick just crossed his arms and glared. For a moment, Bruce's expression of control wavered. He leaned forward as though he were about to stand up, and Rick knew that he was furious. _Good. Let's fight._

But Bruce remained seated. "Tell Alfred to drive you back home," he repeated in a strained voice. "I'll be right behind you."

Rick didn't budge. "I don't believe you."

Bruce was suddenly shooting out of the water and striding toward him. Rick tensed, but he didn't expect to be picked up by his collar and bodily propelled out the door into the hallway. "Go home," his guardian ordered once more, and then the key card was plucked from his hand and the door shut in his face.

Anger hadn't deprived Rick of all of his common sense. He wanted to beat his fists against the silent door, but instead he shoved his hands into his pockets and ran for the elevator. Back downstairs, he raced for the car as though he were pursued.

Alfred eyed his face in alarm. "Is everything all right, Master Richard?"

"He's coming home," Rick muttered, and refused to utter another word during the drive back to the Manor. Once there, he went straight to the study and opened the entrance to the caves, determined that Bruce would not be able to retreat there if he did keep his word and come home.

He didn't have long to wait. Barely fifteen minutes of agitated pacing passed before the lift machinery rumbled and Bruce descended in the iron cage. He was angry and didn't waste time pretending he wasn't.

"Didn't I ever teach you to knock?" he demanded, but the biting sarcasm in his tone only shattered whatever shards of self control Rick had reassembled on the ride home.

He heard himself shouting and didn't care. "You punish me without telling me why, you lie to me about it, and you're upset because I caught you banging some chick in the hot tub?"

Bruce's eyes were dark with fury. "You will speak of Miss Kyle with respect."

"I don't care about _Miss Kyle_. I want to know when you're going to start telling me the truth."

"What truth?"

"You told me you couldn't get away last night. That Batman wasn't going out. And then you sent me to New Mexico to make sure I didn't find out about it. Too bad the journalists blew your cover."

"You went to New Mexico to learn how to fly the plane," his guardian replied, attempting, and failing, to sound reasonable.

"Don't play games with me. I'm not eight anymore, Bruce. If you're going to put Robin out of action, then tell me and tell me why. Did you really think that if you shoved a new toy at me I wouldn't figure out what was going on?"

"You don't think flying the plane is a skill _Robin_ might need someday?"

"Stop it! Just stop it and answer my question!"

"And what question was that?"

Rick grit his teeth until he thought they would snap off. "When can Robin fly again?"

"When we find out who shot him."

"Why?"

"Because I happen to be responsible for your safety."

"People shoot at Batman all the time. Maybe he shouldn't go back out until he knows who all of them are."

"That is entirely different."

"I don't think it is."

"_Batman_ isn't a fifteen year old kid."

"I'm not a kid. I may be fifteen, but I'm not a kid."

"If you're not," Bruce said grimly, "then you should be."

Rick took a deep breath, tried to lower his voice and sound rational. "When I chose to do this, I knew it would be dangerous. I can't quit just because things are getting hot."

"It's not your choice. It's mine. When you _chose_ to do this, you also agreed to obey me absolutely. Consider this a direct order."

"I will."

Bruce relaxed slightly. "Good."

"_If_," Rick continued, "you tell me why you lied to me. You could have given this order the last time Robin came in. Instead you avoided me, and you lied …" That word kept forcing itself off his tongue, ugly and brutal and inescapable. _You lied, you lied, you lied_. "How can I obey you if I can't trust you?"

The question stood between them like a wall, a wall against which Rick could beat his fists until they bled and yet make no dent. And then something flickered in Bruce's face. Opening or recognition or maybe despair. _This is the truth_, Rick thought. _He is finally going to tell me the truth_. He stood frozen in expectation, waiting. Then Bruce's face closed again, the moment of transparency locked away behind the perfect mask, and Rick knew that whatever he was about to say would only be more camouflage.

"I thought it was clear. I assumed that if you needed an explanation, you would have asked me. As for last night, nothing was planned. I had a chance to get out and I took it. Of course, you're not banned from research or observation at school."

"Or from flying planes, I get it," Rick muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, and striding toward the lift. He thought he was going to cry, and he didn't want to do it here. But safely in his room, he didn't cry after all. He sat staring at the wall and felt the vastness of the space around him. Dozens of rooms, all empty, all shadowed by Batman. He hadn't realized until now how greatly that dark presence brooded over the Manor. Even when Bruce was Bruce, they were always aware of the secret hidden in the foundations, always under its strictures and its power.

He had trouble breathing, felt the weight of it all smothering him in the endless space of the mansion.

**SSS**

Bruce heard Alfred come up beside him, but he didn't look away from the mesmerizing spray of the waterfall. He was trying to sort through what had happened, but all he could be sure of was an overwhelming sense of failure. _Why couldn't I tell the truth?_ he asked himself, and his gut rather than his brain provided the answer. He didn't know how to deal with the paralyzing fear that gripped him whenever he thought of Dick going out as Robin, so how could he explain it to anyone else, especially the kid in question?

"Alfred," he said slowly.

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Am I turning into one of those creepy parents who's so wrapped up in their kid they can't see the real world anymore?"

"Not to my observation," the butler replied comfortingly. "You know, most teenagers fight with their parents."

"Not like this," Bruce muttered, at last turning away from the water. He had to talk about something, even if it wasn't the heart of the matter. "He says he's not a kid, and he's wrong. But he's also right, because in so many ways he's not. And then I start to worry that Rachel was right and that in adopting him I robbed him of something he should have had."

"Maybe she was and maybe you have," the butler conceded. "But you can't live like that. Everyone has a decision that haunts them with the might have been, but we can't give into it."

"What's yours?" Bruce asked, facing Alfred for the first time.

"Oh, I have a lot. But the one that bothers me the most is you." He paused and his face grew remote, remembering. "I had agreed to the terms of your parents' will, but I never dreamed I'd actually have to fulfill them. And so I couldn't help wondering whether, if your father had seen what would happen, whether he wouldn't have wanted you placed with a family that was whole, instead. I worried that, by keeping you, I was robbing you of something you should have had."

"You didn't rob me of anything," Bruce said quietly.

Alfred's expression became wry. "You spend your days pretending to be amoral and shallow, and your nights running around in a bat suit. It's no wonder I occasionally ask myself whether I couldn't have done better by you."

**SSS**

Niko was by himself in the lot, practicing his dribbling. The soccer ball hit a crack in the pavement and bounced unexpectedly away from him, so that he skidded on the ice in an attempt to recover it. When he had regained his balance, he saw Rick, holding the ball out to him.

"Hey!" Niko said cheerfully. "I didn't know if you'd be brave enough to come back after what Ari did to you last time." Rick tried to smile back, but it came off as more of a grimace. Niko eyed him and asked, "Is something wrong?"

Rick shrugged, hands jammed in his pockets. For a moment, Niko thought he wouldn't answer, and then he said, "I had a fight with the old man. Needed to get out for awhile."

Niko watched him for another moment and then asked carefully, "Do you need an ice pack?"

Rick looked blank, and then understanding dawned. "It wasn't that kind of fight. He … has this new girlfriend, and I … accidentally walked in on them."

Niko winced in sympathy. "Man, your dad must have been pissed."

"Majorly."

"Was the chick mad?"

"No. She thought it was funny."

Niko thought about this. "That's good, right? I mean, if she's not mad, then he'll probably forget about it, right?"

"Maybe." Rick didn't look convinced, but he clearly didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Are you going to pretend the ball's your girlfriend or are we going to kick it?"

Niko looked at the soccer ball cradled in his arms and threw it at Rick's head. "You're going down for that!" But Rick was already on top of the ball, driving it toward one end of the lot, and Niko had to use his top speed to catch up.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** I'm really, really sorry about leaving you all dangling on a cliffie for two and a half months! Suffice it to say it's been one heck of a semester, with little energy left over for creative writing. It's not that I ignored this chapter—I don't know how many times I sat down to try and work on it and simply couldn't. I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again, but when I do, we'll finally be at the much anticipated Valentines' dance! Hurray!

For any Somerville fans, the inimitable Cecilia is currently making an AU guest appearance in "Spirit and Liberty" by the Gotham Knights.

Review? Even if I'm a horrible, neglectful authoress who should probably be fined by the fiction police? (Hmmm, now there's a story idea …)


	16. February: Dance Mix

**A/N** Happy Valentine's Day! I honestly hadn't intended to leave the valentine's dance chapter until the actual day, but unfortunately it kind of worked out that way. At least the approach of the holiday gave me extra motivation to work hard on it!

Reasons for the huge delay are various, but the most important one is that we had some serious illness in my family. I had planned to spend Christmas break hanging out in my apartment, doing a lot of writing, but instead I took a long road trip to be with them. Which was good, but sucked for the writing. So that, added to crazy graduate school, plus the fact that I've started serious work on an original project, means this story has dropped low on the priority list. But, I am not abandoning it! It may be slow, but it will come!

A very, very special thank you to those of you who took the time to send me encouraging notes saying you missed the story! Every time I got one of those, it helped me focus on writing a few more pages. So this chapter is as much yours as it is mine.

**Chapter 16**

_Sometimes nothing can be a real cool hand._

_- Cool Hand Luke_

Carmen tugged nervously at her dress and craned her neck in a futile attempt to see the back of her head. "Grandma, does my hair look all right?"

"You look beautiful, dear," Helena Fredricks reassured her granddaughter, repressing a sigh. Children grew up _so_ fast.

"For once," Carmen murmured, trying again to see the back of her head.

Helena tapped her granddaughter's nose reprovingly. "No more comments like that, thank you very much. You look wonderful, and if you don't believe me, I'm certain that Richard will back me up."

Carmen blushed. "Grandma!"

"That is, if he's a young man of any intelligence."

Carmen laughed and shook her head, but she was smiling as she picked up her long silver shawl and her purse. Then her smile was replaced by a small frown as she asked, "Are you sure we shouldn't have told Grandpa about the dance?"

Helena clasped her hands in front of her and met Carmen's eyes gravely. "Your grandfather is an honorable and an admirable man, but about some things he is blind. Sometimes because he has been hurt by something in the past, and sometimes because he's just plain stubborn. I'll explain things to him when he comes home tonight. I promise that he won't be angry with you."

"I don't want him to be angry with you either," Carmen protested, her face troubled. "Rick isn't at all like Mr. Wayne. Maybe if I explained …"

"You can. When you come home, after you've had a wonderful time at the dance."

Outside on the driveway, the sound of a motor came faintly through the closed window. "He's here," Carmen said happily and ran down the stairs to the ground floor, Helena close behind her.

But when they arrived, Matthew Fredricks was standing just inside the front door, grasping his carved mahogany cane in one hand while he struggled to undo the buttons of his coat with the other.

Carmen stopped short in confusion and let Helena sweep on ahead of her. "Matthew, you're home early," she exclaimed, reaching out to help him with the buttons. "I thought you and Mr. Tupman were going to have dinner in town."

"We were, only Tupman's got a devilish cold, so I told him to go home and go to bed."

"Very wise," Helen murmured, hanging up the troublesome coat and taking his arm to walk with him to his favorite chair in the library.

But he caught sight of Carmen as they turned. "Carmen!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You look lovely, my dear, what is the occasion? Is there a party?" He looked at his wife in sudden anxiety. "I don't have to go to a party, do I?"

"You can relax, Matthew, it's a dance at Bailey. One of those things they do every year. You'd better sit down and let me put a heating pad on your leg. The cold's not going to do your arthritis any good."

"Don't fuss, Helena, my leg is fine," he said impatiently and returned his attention to his granddaughter. " I thought you didn't like school dances, Carmen."

"I … I don't," she stammered. "Not usually."

"Hmph," Matthew said speculatively, watching the blush creep up her cheeks. "And who is the fortunate young man?"

"I …" Carmen looked pleadingly at her grandmother.

"He's the student who tutors her in math, a very kind and intelligent boy. Matthew, sit down before you strain your leg."

Unsuspecting but persistent, he asked, "What is this kind and intelligent boy's name? I assume he does have a name?"

Wishing fervently that she could stop blushing, Carmen answered, "Rick. It's Rick."

"Matthew …"

"Helena, will you stop dithering? I'm not in my coffin yet. Rick what, Carmen?"

"Grayson."

A frozen expression settled over Matthew Fredricks' face. "Rick Grayson," he repeated slowly.

"Matthew, I would like to have a word with you in the library," Helena said firmly.

He looked over at her. "Yes. I think you'd better. Curious, that you never happened to mention that Carmen was going to this dance."

She set her chin and held his gaze fearlessly. "I think you know why."

"Carmen, please go to your room," Matthew said quietly.

"But Grandpa! He's coming to pick me up. He'll be here any minute."

Leaning heavily on his cane, Matthew advanced until he stood face to face with his granddaughter. "Carmen, I try as much as I can not to pull you into the unpleasant affairs of the adult world. But I think you must know that we no longer have anything to do with the house of Wayne."

"But Grandpa, Rick's not—"

"Please go to your room," he repeated.

Tears spilled out of Carmen's eyes as she spun and ran back up the stairs.

* * *

Trevor rang the Gordons' doorbell and waited, roses in one hand, car keys in the other. Whistling cheerfully, he looked up at the sky, which, for once, was clear. He could even see a couple of stars, which didn't happen very often in Gotham. It was a good omen.

Last night, he'd been woken up by his phone ringing. It was Barbara, and in a half hysterical voice she said that she was at the front door, and could she please come in. Up in his room, she had paced the floor in frantic silence for five minutes, before suddenly launching into a uncontrolled torrent of confession. She told him about the last fight she'd had with her mother and all the nights that guilt kept her awake. She told him about Jimmy, and how she hated taking so much responsibility for him and how she hated herself for hating it. She told him about the fight with Sarah in the department store, and the long weeks of waiting for her father to find out. And at the end of it, she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms.

As he held her and let her cry for the second time in a month, Trevor suddenly realized that he was on the verge of getting what he had wanted for so long. If he could play his cards right. If.

When she looked up at him and asked brokenly what he thought she should do, he had hesitated, and thought. Most girls would have wanted him to say that her mom would never have wanted her to feel guilty, that it was natural to resent Jimmy, that dating Sarah was her dad's worst decision ever. But Barbara wasn't most girls. Taking a leap in the dark, he said, "Apologize to Sarah."

She'd stared at him and then looked down at her hands. "You're right," she whispered. And then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth, hard. "Thank you for telling me the truth," she said, before she ran out of the room. By the time he got downstairs, she was gone.

They hadn't had much chance to talk at school that day, but the smiles she had sent him were warm, and as he stood waiting for her on the porch, he had the definite feeling that his luck was in.

* * *

Alfred pulled to a stop in front of the Fredricks' home and started to climb out of the car.

"Alfred, I can open my own door. Really," Rick protested, hopping out to prove his point. Holding half a dozen pink carnations in one hand and adjusting his bow tie with the other, he hurried up the front steps and rang the doorbell. After a minute, during which he began to wish he'd put on his coat instead of leaving it in the car, the door was opened by a distinguished elderly man who leaned heavily on a cane. "Good evening, Mr. Fredricks," Rick said politely. "I'm here to take Carmen to the dance."

The old man regarded him unsmilingly. "I'm afraid Carmen is feeling a bit under the weather."

"She's not coming?" Rick asked slowly.

"She needs to rest. I'm sorry we didn't call you in time."

"Don't worry about it," Rick said automatically, feeling awkward. "I'm sorry she's sick. Could you give her these?" He handed the carnations to Mr. Fredricks. "Tell her I hope she feels better soon."

"Goodnight," the old man said coolly, and shut the door.

Rick stared at it for a moment, confused, before hurrying back to the car. "Carmen's sick," he explained, sliding into his seat and slamming the door.

"Is she?" Alfred asked in an odd tone.

Rick noticed. "You think her grandfather lied to me?" he asked, laughing.

"That's rather unlikely, isn't it?" Alfred asked, driving the car along the turn-around and headed back down the driveway.

Rick slumped in his seat. "This sucks. I can't go to the dance without a date."

"Perhaps you'll find one there."

"That's what I'm afraid—" He broke off as a figure darted out of the bushes at the side of the road and Alfred hit the brakes. "That's Carmen!" Rick opened his door and climbed out.

She was dressed in a red satin formal, and if the state of her makeup was any evidence, she had been crying. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he said, feeling very awkward. "You can't help it if you're sick."

"I'm not sick!" she burst out. "But my grandpa won't let me go to the dance with you." The last word caught on a sob and more tears made mascara trails down her cheeks.

"Why not?" Rick asked, searching his pockets for a handkerchief. "Please don't cry."

Alfred joined them and, to Rick's relief because his own pockets were coming up empty, offered Carmen a handkerchief.

"Because he hates Mr. Wayne," she gasped in answer to the question, wiping her face clean on the linen.

"Carmen!" an angry voice called, and then Mr. Fredricks was limping down the drive toward them.

His wife hurried behind him. "Matthew, for heaven's sake, you'll put yourself in bed for a week."

He ignored her and hobbled determinedly on. "Carmen, go inside."

"I'm sorry," she sobbed again, and then ran toward the house.

"Don't be a fool, Matthew, they're only children," Alfred said, anger clear in his voice.

"Is that your excuse for the other one, too?" Mr. Fredricks asked contemptuously and turned as his wife laid a hand on his arm. "Yes, Helena, I'm coming." He began to limp toward the house.

"You cannot blame the son for the sins of the father," Alfred called after him, and then as Mr. Fredricks stopped and turned back, he added, "Anymore than you can blame the father for the sins of the son."

"Alfred, I'll thank you not to tell me how to conduct the affairs of my house." The two old men glared at each other, and then Mr. Fredricks resumed his slow progress back, obviously in pain.

"Let's go, Master Richard," Alfred said grimly.

Rick climbed obediently back into the car, feeling embarrassed and angry and confused. "What did Bruce _do_?" he demanded.

Alfred paused with his hand on the gear shift, and then he turned around and Rick almost flinched at the anger still visible in his face. But after a moment, Alfred's expression softened, and he turned back to put the car in gear. "Matthew Fredricks and Thomas Wayne were particular friends," he said, as they sped down the street. "During the long years Mr. Earle had control of the company, Matthew fought the hardest to keep Thomas's visions for Wayne Enterprises alive. And then, after seven years of absence, Bruce Wayne returned, got drunk, and burned down his father's house. Matthew Fredricks has decided that he will not forgive him, any more than he will forgive himself for the way his own child has disappointed him."

"Carmen's mom?" Rick asked.

"Yes."

"But I'm not Bruce. I'm not even related to him."

"Bitterness does not always leave a man enough judgment to make such distinctions."

They rode the rest of the way to the school in silence. Rick stared glumly out the window at the lighted entrance to the gym, where a steady stream of students was entering. "I'd much rather just go home."

"We'd all like that," Alfred answered, not unsympathetically. "Call when you're ready to come home."

Rick got out of the car and dragged his feet toward the building. As he drew closer, he had to smile and wave at people who recognized him—he'd managed to scrape up some form of acquaintanceship with a lot of them during the past couple of weeks, but he was no closer to discovering the link to the riddle killer than he had been at the start of the semester. More and more frequently he thought that this whole undercover bit was a complete waste of time, and that his energy would have been much better spent patrolling Gotham as Robin.

The gym was very pink. The decorating committee had gone overboard with pink and silver streamers, pink and red hearts, and pink and white candles. Snagging a heart shaped cookie loaded with frosting and sprinkles, Rick nodded at a couple of fellow sophomores and began wending his way through the crowd toward what was obviously the stag corner.

"Rick, there you are!" a girl's voice exclaimed, and a slender hand with a pink manicure caught his arm.

He turned uneasily, but it was one of the students he hadn't had a conversation with yet, a petite brunette junior who was on the cheerleading squad. She was smiling in a very friendly way, and he smiled back in some confusion. "Hi." He couldn't remember her name.

"I've been looking for you for twenty minutes. Come on," she began to pull him toward the far side of the gym, where the collapsible bleachers had been folded up against the wall.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Her smile became mysterious. "You'll see."

Rick stopped and was about to demand more information when he caught sight of Amanda halfway across the room. She was standing with Hal and April and a nerdy freshman who must be her date, but she was ignoring them and scanning the crowd purposefully. Reflexively, he turned his back and allowed the cheerleader to pull him on.

When they reached the far wall, she cast a quick look around to make certain no one was watching them, and then ducked into the narrow space between the bleachers and the wall. Thinking that Robin would never follow a strange guide into such a perfect ambush setup, Rick edged after her, and was surprised to discover a door. His guide tugged on a silver chain around her neck, and a moment later a key had emerged from the bodice of her dress. She unlocked the door and, catching Rick's arm again, pulled him inside.

In the light from the gym, he saw steps descending into the basement, and then the door shut behind them, plunging them into darkness. "There's a flashlight here somewhere," his guide murmured, and she brushed against him as she reached up and behind him. "Got it," she announced, and then stumbled. He had to catch her, and she leaned against his chest for a moment. "I'm sorry, it's these shoes."

_What the heck_, he thought, and kissed her, finally remembering, as he did, that her name was Darla.

After a moment, she pulled away, giggling. "Johnny's going to think I ran out on him." Clicking on her flashlight, she started down the stairs.

"Johnny?" he asked curiously. "Johnny Zorello?"

"He's the man," she agreed as they reached the bottom of the steps and started down a cobwebby corridor. "He asked me to hostess this year." She sounded proud.

"Hostess what?" he was about to ask, when they reached a section of corridor that was lighted, albeit with one forty-watt incandescent, and paused in front of a closed door. There were voices behind it, and music.

"Wait here, I know Johnny wants to take you in himself," she said, before opening the door and slipping inside.

Rick shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe, waiting. In addition to the chatter and music, he could hear the clink of glass and a sharp rattling. After a moment, he realized that not all the voices were coming from inside the room. The corridor took a sharp turn a yard away from the door, and a hushed conversation was drifting around it. He couldn't make out the words, and automatically began edging closer, until one of the voices said abruptly, "That's fine," and Johnny Zorello, dressed in a white tuxedo, strode around the corner.

He saw Rick and smiled widely. "Rick, my friend, glad you could make it. I see Darla found you," he added, eyeing Rick with one eyebrow quirked.

"I thought you were suspended? Banned from school grounds?"

"Please. I would never let such a minor issue stand in the way of tradition. Besides, mankind deserves an alternative to that … _pink_ … thing upstairs."

"So this is the real party?" Rick asked, understanding.

"As close to a party as it is possible to get within the sacred and stifling halls of dear old Bailey." Johnny placed his hand on the knob, and then paused. "You may want adjust your lipstick before we go in." He pulled out a crisp handkerchief and offered it with a flourish.

Rick took it and wiped the red smudge off his mouth. "Thanks. It's not really my color."

Johnny's eyebrow quirked again. "Are you sure? She's currently between football players." Before Rick could answer, he pushed open the door and led the way in.

The room was larger than Rick expected, and when he detected the remains of a wall that had once cut it in half, he wondered just how far back this particular Bailey tradition went. There was red carpet on the floor and heavy swaths of red and black silk covered the walls. About fifty people—the uppermost crust of the elite student body—were gathered around tables, holding glasses, playing cards, and shaking dice.

"A micro-scale operation, obviously," Johnny said modestly. "Just blackjack, craps, and poker, and blackjack's the only one with a house bank. We operate only during the Valentines dance, offering a much needed alternative entertainment to a select guest list. No one is allowed to plunge deeper than a thousand, since the essence of our operation is secrecy, and we don't want anything getting out of hand. No IOUs, but you are allowed to bid anything you come in with in a poker game, as long as the other players agree. Watches, phones, things like that. and I can promise you that several people will have lost their shirts before the night is over. There's also a two drink limit." He nodded toward the bar which, despite being small and obviously portable, gleamed impressively.

"No getting out of hand?" Rick asked.

"You got it. Now, if you'll accompany me to the lovely Tracy, we'll get your chips—"

Rick reluctantly trailed after him. "You know, Johnny, I don't have much cash with me …"

Johnny pulled out his wallet and handed several bills over to his designated cashier. "Tracy, I'll be personally bankrolling my friend Mr. Grayson tonight, since his advance invitation got lost. My suspension made things a little more difficult than usual," he explained to Rick, looking apologetic.

Tracy, another cheerleader, handed over five hundred in chips with a coy smile. "Have fun, Rick."

"Thanks, Johnny, but I'd really rather just watch …"

"Nonsense," Johnny said genially, steering him toward the nearest table. "Have a drink, shoot a little craps, and enjoy yourself."

Rick obediently took a seat at the table and watched the guy next to him, a senior named Martin, throw for his pass bet. He made it, and enthusiastically pulled in the chips of the player who had bet against him. "It's the beginning of a streak," he told Rick confidentially, although as far as Rick could remember they'd spoken only once before, passing in the hallway. Martin had apparently already reached his two drink limit, which may have been one too many. "The Tren better watch his back because I'm coming up behind him."

Abruptly interested, Rick demanded, "What about Tren?"

Martin clapped a heavy but friendly hand on his shoulder. "I forgot, you're a new kid. The Train's been the big winner for two years running, but tonight, he's going to be derailed." He guffawed at his own joke and knocked over his stack of chips.

Rick turned and systematically scanned the room, something he had neglected to do when he first entered. As the crowd around the poker table shifted, he saw Trevor, cards in hand, staring coolly at his opponent, who looked torn with indecision. And behind him, framed against a panel of black silk, stood Barbara.

She was wearing a short, white silk sheath with a crimson sash, and her long auburn hair fell smoothly over her bare shoulders. She looked happy, chatting merrily to another girl, and he knew that he had never seen her looking so good. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been staring when his dazed reverie was broken by Martin jostling into him as he slammed both fists on the table in frustration. Hoping that no one had seen him gawking and slightly relieved that Barbara had remained engaged in her conversation, Rick tore his eyes away and found Trevor watching him, looking amused.

Rick turned back to his own table, confused. What had suddenly happened to Trevor's "breathe-in-my-girlfriend's-vicinity-and-I'll-kill-you" mentality? _Either they've broken up_, Rick thought, _not likely, or he's finally figured out he doesn't have any reason to be jealous_. Which had been true all along but was still depressing.

Rick mechanically accepted the dice Martin shoved at him and picked up a chip to make his bet at random, which, Alex had told him once, was only honest thing for a mathematician to do.

"You probably want to start out with a pass line bet," Martin encouraged him, and Rick stared at him, seized with sudden temptation. Martin, tipsy and superstitious, was obviously not going to be the night's big winner. But he, Rick, could probably do it without breaking a mental sweat. It was only a matter of working the statistics. He and Alex had even done a study of casino games once, just for fun.

Of course, in addition to working the numbers, they'd had a conversation about ethics. _But it's not actually cheating. It's just this once, and it's not even like I'm playing a real casino. It's low stakes, no one's going to get hurt. And I'll do something good with the money_. One last glance over at the poker game decided him. Trevor was raking in the pot, smiling in a cool, self-congratulatory way that said he was confident in his game and his luck, and then Barbara walked over and ran her fingers through his hair, smiling down at him. It wasn't fair. No guy should get everything like that.

"Ok," Rick said purposefully, throwing down his chips. "Let's make a train wreck."

* * *

Selina dropped the innocent looking package with no return address into the mailbox and walked on the Metropolis street, a small smile playing around her mouth. She did wish that she could be there to see the commissioner's face when he opened it, but that would be, if not impossible, at least very foolish. Thinking about Commissioner Gordon drew her thoughts to Gotham in general and Bruce Wayne in particular. Her smile deepened as she admitted to herself how eager she was to return. The little games they played were more than she had had in, well, ever. _Patience_, she counseled herself. She had almost gotten ahead of the game during their last encounter. _The time is coming._ And until it came, it was better that she stay in Metropolis.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and the caller ID presented a number she had never seen before. "Hello?"

"_Luthor is moving without you. The facility is being evacuated as we speak._"

Selina's fingers whitened as she gripped the phone tightly. "That's impossible," she told the low voice, but he had already hung up.

That Luthor would go behind her back in this way seemed inconceivable, but if he said it was so, it must be happening. _How did he know? He has a contact, _she immediately answered herself, _one he didn't tell me about._ Something sharp twisted in her gut, but she ignored the pain as she quickened her pace toward the parking garage where she had left her car, not daring to go fast enough to attract notice, but burning inside with impatience and worry. Finally at her vehicle, she drove to LexCorp's massive Metropolis headquarters and parked in her reserved spot, then made her way to the elevator, appearing as cool, calm, and collected as she always did.

Selina rode the elevator as low as it would travel, to the lowest officially existing level of the complex. Once there, she transferred to another elevator, one that took a key to summon and required a retinal scan before it would obey her command to go down.

She got off at level sub-6, and found the place in orderly chaos. Equipment and files were being hastily packed, and down the hall she caught sight of Jonathan Crane leading one of the subjects toward the exit.

"Dr. Crane," she called, hurrying to catch up, without seeming to hurry at all.

He flinched as she came near, and she looked him over with contempt. Jonathan Crane had once been a genius, who had a gift for manipulating minds that, from what she had been told, had been truly remarkable. But she had never known him before that same brilliant mind had fallen prey to his own weapons, and it had never recovered. He still had flickers of that genius, which was why Luthor had hunted him out of the slums and used him, and she had once hoped that she might be able to resurrect more than a flicker, by challenging him to the games he had once so skillfully used to torment others. But instead of rising to the challenge, he had only added her to the list of things he was cringingly, coweringly afraid of. His mind was too completely overthrown, not only as a result of the toxin, but because the dark and guiding light of his psyche, his faith in his own genius, had been extinguished by another darkness—the shape of the Batman.

"Miss Kyle," he now stammered, pushing at spectacles that didn't need pushing. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Obviously," she said coolly. "Where are you taking them?"

"I … I don't know. I'm only following Mr. Luthor's orders. There's a plant, that's all I know." He looked at her pleadingly, hoping she was pacified.

It was probably true, and there was no point in browbeating him. "Where is Lex?" she demanded.

"He was just here. When he saw everything was fine, he said he was going to take the evening off."

She knew what that meant. Without another word, she returned to the elevator and went back up, all the way up this time, to the complex's very top level, which also needed special security clearance. She didn't have it. She could make the elevator go up, but she couldn't get out until he chose to let her. He made her wait several minutes, but she stood patiently, refusing to let the rage smoldering inside her take over. She had to regain control of the situation, and that started, she knew, within.

"Selina, I'm so sorry," Lex exclaimed, as he finally opened the elevator doors. "I didn't hear the bell."

His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard, and she knew that he knew she had discovered his attempted betrayal, and he wasn't happy about it.

"Don't worry about," she said smoothly. "I apologize for disturbing you on your _night off_, but I just wanted to let you know that I'll be flying with the subjects to their new facility."

He was angry, and he had to turn his back to hide it. "You have a lot of work here in Metropolis. Do you really have time for a leisure trip?" He was pretending to be casual, but they both knew he had already lost the round to her.

"You know that I represent certain vested interests in the project. I think it's best."

He had failed to hide the transfer from her and thereby gain the upper hand in their relationship. And it galled him because she had always somehow held that upper hand, so Lex lost hold of the frayed edge of his temper and snapped, "Don't forget that you do work for me." Which was a stupid thing to say, by anyone's standards.

"Only on paper," she returned coolly. "Don't forget that as an enemy, I may prove too costly even for the great Lex Luthor." And with that reminder, she left.

The project was being moved to a remote LexCorp facility in Montana. When she had flown there, made certain that Luthor didn't have a second trick up his sleeve, and flown back again, her cell phone rang. It was a number she had never seen before.

"Hello?" she asked. There was no response, but the silence was familiar. "I have the situation under control."

"How novel," he said at last, biting irony in his tone.

"You have an inside contact," Selina accused, the shame of the betrayal suddenly to great to be silenced. "I thought you trusted me with this project."

"And it's a good thing I didn't, isn't it? Since you obviously were on the verge of failing me. What happened? Were you distracted?" The questions were asked gently, sympathetically, and she shuddered because she knew the rage they concealed.

"It won't happen again."

"You know what will happen, if it does."

* * *

Barbara was feeling seriously annoyed with Richard Grayson. This was supposed to be Trevor's night. He was the best poker player in the school, and for the first time in the three Valentines dances they'd attended together, she actually cared whether he won the stupid game. Things between them had shifted so rapidly, that she still wasn't entirely certain she had her bearings, but she did know that Trevor was suddenly important, and that she wanted him to be happy.

And Trevor had been winning. Until little Rick had made a killing at craps, and broken Johnny's blackjack bank, and then wandered over to the poker table and asked, with that angelically innocent face of his, whether he could bid in.

One of the players, down to his last ten bucks, willingly gave up his seat, and Rick sat down and proceeded to win. And win again. And again, and again. He lost a few hands, but never nearly as much as he won, and he had an aggravating trick of increasing the bid by astronomical amounts, that were impossibly high for anyone who hadn't been winning all night. And when he sent the bid skyrocketing, you never knew whether it was because he had an excellent hand or because he just felt like it—he'd pushed it past five hundred dollars once on a pair of fives.

But the most irritating thing of all was that he didn't seem to care. If he'd gone half crazy with puppyish excitement over his phenomenal luck, she could have felt condescendingly amused at the little sophomore who thought he was making it in the big time. But Rick seemed more interested in flirting with Darla, or any other pretty girl who drifted over to watch the game, than in his cards.

Trevor was down to his last stack of chips, and although his expression remained cool, Barbara could read the tense line of his shoulders. She knew that this game was important to him because, like her, he didn't really have friends at school. But he had gone from being an undersized, ostracized, disliked twerp to a guy nobody messed with. He wasn't popular, but he got respect, and this game was one of the ways he got it.

Last night, when things had suddenly gotten to her, she'd snapped, and she'd instinctively gone to the one place she could go, to the one person she could really talk to. She hadn't realized before how much she depended on Trevor to be there when she needed him. And after she'd woken him up for the privilege of watching her fall apart, he'd had the courage to tell her the truth.

She wasn't suddenly blinded to his faults. He was still a liar and something of a creep, but he was _her_ creep, she thought with an unexpected burst of tenderness. And she hated watching him lose.

Rick opened the bidding for what was undoubtedly going to be the last hand. He opened high, and the two players besides Trevor who were left, folded in disgust. Trevor didn't have enough chips to cover the bet, but he took off his expensive watch and looked questioningly at Rick.

"Why not?" the younger boy said agreeably, and took the last of Trevor's chips and the watch with a full house.

"It looks like we have the night's the big winner," Johnny announced, clapping Rick on the back. "Unless there's anything else you want to put on the table, Trevor?"

Everyone looked at Trevor, but Barbara hoped that she was the only one who saw how close he was to losing his temper. Forcing a smile, he made a show of rummaging around in his pockets and pulled out his car keys.

Rick shook his head. "I don't think so."

Trevor raised eyebrow. "Oh, that's right. You don't have a license."

Rick remained unoffended. "Next week," he said cheerfully. "But I only get one space in the garage. Bruce had to get rid of his Audi to make room, and he was whining enough about that. Not that he ever drove it." For some reason, he looked at Barbara when he said this, maybe because she was one of the few people who had actually seen Bruce Wayne's garage and knew just how ridiculous the statement was. He smiled at her, not the killer charm one he'd been using all night on the cheerleaders, but a half-shy _are-we-still-friends?_ one, and in that he gave himself away. Barbara abruptly realized that he'd been flirting with the cheerleaders all night because he couldn't flirt with _her_, and that in thinking so much about Trevor, she'd forgotten all about Rick's persistent crush. Which gave her an idea. Not a very nice one, perhaps, but one that would give Trevor one more chance to recoup his losses. Tugging on her boyfriend's arm, she said, "Excuse us a minute," and pulled him into a corner for a private conference.

Trevor was against the idea at first, until she pointed out that he really couldn't lose anything, and then, because he really wanted to win and maybe because of the new level of trust between them, he gave in, with the caveat that, "We'll have to run it past Johnny."

Johnny, predictably, was delighted. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced grandly, "Miss Gordon has agreed to put up on the behalf of Mr. Wren, the stake," he paused, to make certain he had everyone's attention and continued, "of one kiss. The Bailey gaming committee, meaning me, has agreed to let this stand, but it shall be left to Mr. Wren's opponent to decide how much a kiss is worth." Dropping his affected manner, he grinned broadly. "So, Rick, how much are you going to put up?"

She had thought that he would look flustered, or at least pleased. But he only shot her one inscrutable glance out of his unnervingly pale eyes, and then he looked down at his chips, worth close to twenty thousand dollars—an astronomical amount for Bailey poker, but probably not that much to boy who had a trust fund worth a billion dollars.

Looking back up at her, he grinned unexpectedly, and then deliberately shoved all of his chips into the center of the table. Johnny laughed and started to say something, undoubtedly something stupid, but Rick held up a hand, and pushed Trevor's watch next to the chips. Then he added his own watch and started pulling things out of his pockets—a cell phone, a wallet, a key ring, and two crumpled napkins with numbers written on them. People were starting to laugh now, and Rick was smiling too, in a way that said he knew he was making a spectacle out of himself and enjoying every minute.

The laughter suddenly doubled as he stood up and took off his jacket and added it to the pile on the table. He followed it up with his bow tie, his vest, his belt, and his shoes. Johnny was laughing so hard he had to lean against the table to keep his balance, but he managed to gasp out, "You're not going to stop there, are you?"

"Of course not," Rick said calmly, and unbuttoned his shirt. That caused a sensation, but it was nothing to the whistles he got as climbed out of his pants and placed them, neatly folded, on top of the stack.

Wearing nothing but his undershirt, boxers (blue with yellow ducks), and long wool socks, he bowed deeply to his catcalling audience and sat back down. "I should have worn layers," he said cheerfully, causing Johnny to go into convulsions, which had to be calmed down before he could get on with the honor of dealing the very last hand of the night.

"You'd better win, man, or you're going to freeze your ass on the way home," Johnny said, shaking his head as he finally distributed the cards.

"You can ride with me, Rick, I'll keep you warm," Tracy offered, inspiring another round of catcalls. Barbara rolled her eyes and wondered why Darla wasn't chiming in too.

The room grew quiet as both players studied their hands. Barbara held her breath. Trevor glanced at his cards with his best blank expression, but she could tell he was pleased, when, after a moment, the line of his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

Trevor retained his original cards, but Rick took two from the dealer, and spent a moment rearranging his hand. "Ok," he said, and threw down his cards. Two pairs, aces over eights.

Trevor threw down his cards triumphantly. "Flush," he announced. "Sorry, Rick, looks like you'd better take Tracy up on her offer."

"What?" Rick asked, sounding surprised, looking at his own cards. "Oh. Sorry." He looked genuinely apologetic as he nudged an eight aside to reveal his third ace. "Full house." His second one in a row.

Half the crowd was cheering and the other half was still laughing as Trevor shook his head in disgust. "You have the devil's luck," he said, but to Barbara's relief, he didn't sound too upset. Maybe you couldn't be too mad at a guy in ducky boxers.

Rick managed to get most of his clothes back on before someone in the crowd remembered what the whole point of this had been. "Kiss!" came the shout, and then everyone was chanting it. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Barbara sighed and started around the table, but before she got to Rick's chair, the chant suddenly stumbled and died. "Johnny," a girl gasped, and Barbara saw that a path had opened in the crowd to let Darla through.

She was gasping for breath and she looked terrified. Her dress was torn and dirty where she must have fallen, and there was a crimson streak smeared on her shoulder. "Johnny, everyone, come quick," she sobbed. "There's been a murder!"

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Remember, reviews make the best valentines!


	17. February: Runs

**A/N** Woot! Having officially completed my first year in the PhD program (I even got an A+ this semester. It kind of cracks me up that they still give A+es in grad school), I have been laboring like Hercules to bring you this very special, start-of-summer-mega-double-chapter event! And not only am I posting two, yes, **2** chapters at the same time, but all readers who review both chapters will receive a special bonus: A just for fun AU rewrite of the end of the last chapter. (You know, the part where Darla bursts in with news of the murder just as Barbara's about to kiss Rick?) Have fun!

**Disclaimer** Um … I know there's something that's supposed to go here, but I can't think what it might be …

**Chapter 17**

_A joke, even if it be a lame one, is nowhere so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder trial. – Mark Twain_

Gordon sat at his desk with his head in his hands, staring bleakly at the array of photos before him. He'd stared at the Riddler's crime scenes so many times that he could see them just as well with his eyes shut, but he kept looking, hoping that he'd see that one vital clue that would tell them how to find this guy.

Sarah slipped into the office and sat down across from him. "Again?" she asked softly.

"We have to be missing something. It's impossible that we have this many crime scenes and not know more than we do."

Sarah shook her head, not fooled by the line. "Jim, are you sleeping at all?"

"Since Barbara's wedding ring turned up on Commissioner Loeb's body? No, not really. If she'd just let me put the damn tail back on!"

"You can't blame her for getting tired of being followed all the time. She's smart and she knows he might be coming for her. She'll be ok."

He only groaned and slumped lower in his chair. "And I used to think her boyfriend was a major problem."

Sarah smiled slightly and pulled a folder full of pictures toward her. "You know, there's one aspect of these crime scenes that we haven't really discussed."

"What's that?"

"Escalation. He is escalating as far as his message is concerned. His victims are definitely becoming more high profile. But what about the level of violence?"

Gordon leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "First victim was tortured extensively before he was killed. Next three were executed with a single shot, and so was Loeb. No torture. So what does that tell us?"

"Obviously, that he doesn't have to torture them. And maybe …" She paused, frowning. "Maybe that he doesn't _have_ to kill them, either. If he has a need to kill, then there's no way he would deescalate like this. But if this is solely about sending a message …"

Gordon nodded slowly. "So why torture only the first victim? Why torture him at all? It wasn't a necessary part of illustrating the riddle."

"Could be there was something different about him. Maybe in addition to this crusade he's on, it was also personal. We should go over all of Osmond's connections again. See if anyone at all suspicious turns up."

"That could be it. Or maybe …" Gordon chewed furiously on the end of his mustache. "Maybe he originally envisioned torture as part of the message, but dropped it after the first time out. Could be he decided the message was more effective without it. Or that he simply couldn't afford to spend so much time at the next crime scenes. But whatever the reason, he decided it wasn't necessary for the message. Whatever that is."

Sarah met his eyes evenly. "I think we both have a pretty good idea of what that message might be."

Gordon's mouth tightened, but before he could reply, O'Hara burst through the door. "Commissioner, we've got a body."

"With a riddle?" Gordon snapped, sweeping the files together and standing hastily.

"We're not sure yet, but we just got several 911 calls. It's …"

O'Hara hesitated and Gordon glanced at him sharply. "What is it?"

"Sir, it's at Bailey."

For the briefest fraction of a second the world blacked out. Gordon stumbled and caught himself on the corner of the desk. "Who?" _Barbara! Oh dear God, not again._

O'Hara looked miserable. "All we know is that we just got calls from a dozen hysterical kids saying there's a body in the gym."

"I'll drive," Sarah said grimly, coming around the desk to take his arm. "Jim?"

At her touch his paralysis evaporated, and he found that he could not only walk but run. Sarah's wheels skidded as she pulled out of the precinct parking lot, lights and siren blazing. Gordon fumbled with his cell phone, screwing up the speed dial twice before he managed to get his daughter's number blinking on the screen. It rang once and cut to voicemail. He ended the call and dialed again. And again. _Turn on your phone, honey, please turn on your phone_. He didn't realize he was saying it out loud until Sarah suddenly reached it over and plucked the phone from his hand.

"She might have turned it off for any of a dozen reasons," she said evenly. "Calling it when it's off isn't going to do any good. We need you to focus."

"He had her mother's wedding ring and it's Valentine's Day!" Gordon shouted. "Don't you tell me to focus!" He buried his face in his hands, shaking.

* * *

"There's been a murder!" Darla sobbed.

For an instant, Rick's mind blanked in shock. Then training kicked in and he automatically scanned the crowd, registering reactions. Most of the students appeared completely stunned. Johnny's jaw actually dropped as he gaped at his hostess. Barbara was white-faced and wide-eyed, Trevor unexpectedly grim, with a clenched jaw.

"It fell from the ceiling," Darla was wailing. "The blood spattered everywhere."

Everyone stared at the crimson streak on her dress, and then Tracy started screaming, her hands covering her eyes. Rick grabbed his remaining possessions off the table and stuffed them into his pockets, ready to join the sudden stampede toward the door. But the rush of the crowd pushed the shaken Darla off her feet, and she staggered forward, running into him. He caught her automatically and knew immediately that this wasn't a cheap ploy like her earlier tripping on the stairs. She was shaking uncontrollably and didn't really seem to recognize him as he helped her into a chair. His hand brushed against the slick red stain on her shoulder, and he grimaced as he looked at his wet palm, then frowned. Bringing his hand to his nose, he sniffed. It was acrid and chemical and definitely not blood.

Abandoning Darla to a knot of girls who had chosen to stay behind with the hysterical Tracy, he ran out of the room and up the stairs. Long before he reached the door behind the bleachers, he could hear screams and shouts, and when he finally made it to the gym, everybody seemed half hysterical with panic. He could hear a couple of teachers yelling for everybody to calm down, but another chaperone was cowering behind the refreshments table. There was blood, or paint, everywhere, marking grisly spatter patterns across the pink decorations.

It was wasn't difficult to spot the body. It dangled from the roof, swaying well above head level, a splash of scarlet soaking its white shirt front. _Stabbed and then hung?_ Rick wondered, his eyes following the rope up to its invisible origin. _A crawl space for lighting maintenance?_ As he worked his toward that end of the gym, he scanned the crowd, watching again for anyone whose reaction seemed slightly out of place. A lot of girls, and a few of the boys, were crying. Everyone was frightened, excited. Except … His eyes fell on Johnny, who was standing close beneath the swaying body, regardless of the occasional drip that sailed out from its gentle arc, his expression one of pure fury.

Rick observed him for a few seconds, then allowed his gaze to travel on. More tears, more terror, more hysterical excitement. He found Barbara standing with Trevor on the sidelines, and with a slight shock realized that they were doing the same thing he was—watching. Barbara started to turn, and Rick hurriedly turned away so that she wouldn't catch him observing her. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and called the house.

Bruce answered. "Hello?"

"It's me. Hey, um, there's kind of a body in the gym."

"What?!"

"Don't worry, I mean, it's a fake. I think somebody's pulling a major prank. But lots of people are panicking, and I didn't want you to worry or anything if you heard about it."

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Ok."

Rick started to drop his cell phone back in his pocket, then thought better of it and started snapping pictures of the crowd, unobtrusively sweeping the whole room, as he made his way toward Mr. Davis. The Life Skills teacher was bellowing ineffectively at the panicky crowd, doing his part to make things worse.

"Excuse me, Mr. Davis?"

The teacher spun, and snapped, "What is it Grayson? Can't you see we have an emergency here?"

"The blood is fake."

Mr. Davis stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"The blood dripping out of the body," Rick patiently elaborated. "It's fake." He offered his palm with the now dried red smear.

Mr. Davis looked at it, then knelt and stuck his finger in a red drop. He sniffed, and then his eyes widened. "You're right." Throwing his arms in the air he bellowed again, "Everybody calm down! The body is a fake!"

This time, people listened. A startled hush spread across the gym as everyone turned to look at the horrible thing dangling from the ceiling. Nearby, a teacher who had been sobbing hysterically into her hands suddenly regained her self-possession and started herding students into some semblance of order along the bleachers.

Rick, with the help of some subtle maneuvering, managed to place himself next to Johnny, who was still staring at the ceiling with undisguised loathing. "You ok, man? You look pretty upset."

"Upset?" Johnny snapped. "Of course I'm upset." He finally tore his gaze away from the dangling corpse and glared at Rick. "Don't you realize that whoever pulled this off is the greatest prankster in the history of Bailey? Next to this, spaghetti is nothing. It's … it's worse than nothing. Gah!" he ended, in a strangled cry of frustration.

So that was it. Johnny's bid to become school prankster had been a miserable failure, and now someone else had seized the title, probably for good. "How'd you know it was a prank?" Rick asked curiously.

"Hello? Fake blood? I would have thought even these morons would have figured it out."

"I guess they just panicked."

Rick went back to watching the teachers restoring some kind of order in the gym, and by the time the police burst in two minutes later (just ahead of the first wave of hysterical parents), everybody was more or less calm and quiet.

To be more accurate, the cops were the first wave of hysterical parents. Commissioner Gordon was the first one into the gym, and his wild, anxious gaze tore through the gym until it found the form of his daughter. The aging cop actually ran across the wooden court.

Rick, who was close enough to overhear the conversation, heard him gasp out, "Barbara, honey, why didn't you answer your phone?"

Barbara, staring in horror at her father's white face, stammered, "I didn't even think, I turned it off. I should have … Daddy, I'm so sorry!" She threw her arms around his neck, and he held her tightly, burying his face for a moment against her shining hair.

"I thought I'd lost you like I'd lost your mother," he said softly as he released her.

"Oh Dad …"

"She's been right with me, sir, the whole time," Trevor offered.

Gordon reached out and grasped his shoulder. "Thank you," he said simply. Then, dropping his hand, he added, "I got to get to work. You two keep together."

"We will," Barbara promised.

"So that's disturbing," someone commented casually, and Rick turned to find Bruce gawking up at the fake corpse, looking half fascinated and half repulsed.

"Yeah, it made quite a splash."

"Literally," his guardian commented, looking at a long splatter of red that was not part of the Valentines decorations on a nearby table.

"You got here fast."

Bruce shrugged modestly. "Well, it's not every day I get to speed to the scene of a murder, even if it's only a fake one. Besides, I wanted to beat—"

"Brian!" someone screamed. "Brian! Where's my son? Brian, Brian, I know he's dead, I know he's—"

"I'm right here, Mom," an embarrassed voice called out, and the nerdy freshman Rick had spotted earlier with Amanda hurried forward.

Fortunately for him, the embarrassing spectacle of his mother throwing her arms around him and sobbing hysterically was soon swallowed up in a wave of parents, some hysterical, some angry, and all very determined to find their kids _now_.

"Them," Bruce finished belatedly. "Although I guess I missed my chance for a big entrance." Throwing his arms wide, he exclaimed dramatically, "Richard, Richard, I can't believe you're safe!"

He tried to pull his ward into a hug, but Rick ducked away, looking embarrassed. "Knock it off, will you? This is serious, the cops are here."

"What, you're too cool to be hugged in front of all your friends?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Oh Rick, isn't it horrible? Who would think this was funny?" Amanda rushed up to them, her blond curls escaping out of her elaborate hairdo and giving her a frazzled look.

Bruce looked at her thoughtfully. "You must be Amanda."

She turned to him, wide-eyed, as though she'd had no idea he was there. "Oh, hello Mr. Wayne. How do you know my name?"

"Richard's mentioned you a time or two."

"Oh!" Amanda looked both flustered and pleased.

Rick looked daggers at his guardian, but before he could think of a way to either get even with Bruce or discourage Amanda, Darla and Tracy appeared, both still sniffling, their arms wrapped supportively around each other.

"Here, Rick, you forgot this," Darla said, offering a wavering smile and holding out his bow tie.

Bruce's eyebrows moved fractionally upward, but before he could become inquisitive, Rick said quickly, "Hey, thanks."

He reached to take the tie, but she pulled it back at the last second. "Let me tie it for you, I do it for my dad all the time."

"Thanks," he muttered, not feeling entirely grateful as she buttoned the top button on his shirt and threaded the tie around his neck.

"Does that look even, Trace?" she asked, and the other cheerleader stepped close to offer her advice. At this range, Rick noticed that they had both found time to repair their makeup after their hysterics.

Amanda was glaring helplessly and Bruce was grinning as he said, "While you're, uh, _busy_, I think I'll go get a closer look at the body.

Rick enviously watched him saunter away, as Darla and Tracy began arguing over whether the loops of the bow were exactly the same.

* * *

Gordon slumped over his desk, staring woefully at his phone. Any minute the mayor was going to call, and Gordon didn't have any answers for him.

The incident at Bailey the night before had born all the marks of a prank, yes, but there had also been a riddle pinned to the chest of the dummy.

_A one branch tree,  
With nary a leaf,  
Grows profusely  
A crop of grief._

The riddles were a piece of evidence that had never been released to the media, that no one but a select group of the police force should have known about. It was possible the real Riddler had arranged the whole scenario, which might fit in with Sarah's puzzling observation about the de-escalation of his crimes. It would be nice if it were true. It might mean that the guy was through killing real people.

But there was also the distinct possibility that they had a leak, that the prankster at Bailey was only a copycat, and Gordon's gut feeling was promising him that this was the case. In the first place, the body hadn't fit the riddle. Oh sure, it had been hung, and the riddle's answer, as O'Hara informed him, was a gallows. But there had been all that fake blood, projected through a slit in the chest by a small pump, activated by the force of the dummy hitting the end of his rope. The purpose of the blood had been simply to cause the crowd to panic. That was very unlike the other crime scenes, where details added by the killer had always been for the purpose of illustrating the riddle. And in the second place, the "victim" had no relationship to the wedding ring clue left at the scene of the last crime. In fact, the dummy apparently represented no specific person, and certainly not an enemy of Batman.

The rest of the evidence was inconclusive. The riddle had been printed from a school machine, but not the same one as the others. And the crime had happened on a holiday, but it was coincidence that it had been a Friday so that the dance had been held on the exact date. Was the date or the dance more important?

If it was true that it was only a copycat, it meant not only that he had a leak in his most trusted team of investigators, but that Barbara was still in danger. It was also true he had no suspects for the role of incredibly sophisticated prankster. There was one kid the school authorities had immediately suspected – John Zorello, currently on suspension for another practical joke and who had been on the premises last night. But an interview had led his detectives to believe the kid was innocent (although he wished he wasn't). There were also three dozen witnesses who could put him elsewhere at the time the dummy came swinging down from the ceiling, although he might have had an accomplice.

Which brought Gordon to the other kid the principal had told him might have been involved in Zorello's first prank: Richard Grayson. Although as commissioner he really shouldn't be handling field work anymore, Gordon was sorely tempted to undertake that interview himself.

His wife had often accused him of undue partiality where Bruce Wayne was concerned, and Gordon admitted to himself that it was still true, would probably always be true. No matter what stupid exploit the rest of the city was shaking its collective head over, Gordon could only see the small boy shivering in the dark. When they had come into the light of the police station, the kid had seen the blood on his hands, and had gone half ballistic trying to wipe it off. Gordon still dreamt about it once in a while, only sometimes the kid in his dream was Bruce Wayne, and sometimes it was one of his own. Either way, he woke up in a cold sweat and always had trouble going back to sleep.

Apparently, though, he was the only one who still suffered from dreams. Last night, Wayne had seemed unaffected by the red spattered gym, climbing up to the top of the bleachers so he could get a better look at the gory dummy. But still … there was something about the man that always seemed off, hollow, to Gordon. Like something in him had been crushed that night Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot, forever stunting his growth.

_Sentimental and blind_, he told himself crossly, and was startled out of his reflections as the phone finally rang.

Ten painful minutes later, Gordon heard the mayor hang up and gratefully set his own phone back in its cradle. The mayor was understandably upset, especially given his own wife's involvement, and nothing Gordon had to tell him made him any happier.

There was a soft knock on the door, and through the glass wall Gordon could see the bulky form of O'Hara. "Come in," he called.

The police chief entered, but stood back from the desk hesitatingly, a folder clutched in his beefy hands.

"What is it?" Gordon demanded impatiently.

"Well, sir, the media releases on the prank last night."

"Bad?"

"About what we expected. But there was one thing I, uh, I thought maybe you should see." O'Hara dropped the folder on the desk as though it were hot and hurried back toward the door. "I'm just going to go back down to the crime lab and see what progress they've made on the dummy."

Wondering what could have made the usually stolid O'Hara so nervous, Gordon flipped open the folder and found himself looking at a special edition of _Gotham Gossip_. "Killer Prankster Strikes Prep School" was the headliner on the cover, and beneath it was a Photoshop enhanced pictured of the hanging dummy. A series of sub-headlines read: "Terror in the gym!" "One Mother's Story: 'I thought I'd never see my son again!'" "The cool kids partied elsewhere – could they be responsible?" "Shocking showdown over the Police Commissioner's daughter!"

Gordon snapped upright in his chair, gaping at the last line in disbelief. _What the … If Trevor has anything to do with this, I'll wring his …_ He flipped open to the yellow post-it marker and stared in disbelief at the array of pictures of his daughter, her boyfriend, and Richard Grayson in a pair of ducky boxers.

* * *

"Master Wayne!"

Alfred voice drifted dimly through Bruce's unconscious haze, but he decided to ignore it.

"Commissioner Gordon is here to see Richard."

"What?" The billionaire's eyes flew open and he sat up. "About last night?"

"He said so, but I suspect there's something else in the wind as well. The Commissioner seemed extraordinarily tense."

Bruce rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to think. "Something happened last night Richard didn't tell us?"

"I think it's possible."

"Barbara Gordon," Bruce said in resignation. "Of all the girls in that school, why did it have to be her?"

"Don't be too hard on him. If I were fifty years younger, I'd probably be in love with her myself."

Bruce sighed and rolled out of bed. "I'll be down in five minutes."

True to his word, five minutes later Bruce met Richard in front of the library door. Examining his ward's stoic face, he asked carefully, "Is there anything you want to tell me before we go in there?"

"No," the teenager said briefly, and opened the door.

Bruce grimaced and followed him in. Their cover-up banter last night in the gym hadn't done anything to defrost the icy atmosphere that had lingered between them since the fight in the batcave, and whatever was about to happen with the Commissioner probably wouldn't help the situation.

_What did you do, kid?_ Bruce wondered as he took in Gordon's sharp glare, the one he usually reserved for interrogating really ugly suspects. And he didn't offer anything more than a cursory nod in greeting before waving them into chairs, as though this were his station and not Bruce's house. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Alfred slip into the room and take an unobtrusive seat near the door.

The interview started out innocuously enough. At Gordon's request, Richard briefly related the events of the evening before. He had been at a secondary party in the basement, playing poker, when Darla Carson had run in screaming about murder. He'd realized the blood on her dress was fake, and when he got upstairs, he'd told a teacher.

"Did you see anything suspicious during the evening? Anything that would suggest who did this?"

"No."

"Do you know John Zorello?"

"Yeah. Johnny and I are … kind of friends."

"Do you think he had anything to do with the prank?"

"Johnny likes pranks, but … he was standing right across from me when Darla ran in, and he looked really, like, shocked. I think he was really surprised."

"Have you ever been involved in any of Johnny's pranks?"

"Just as a victim."

"Did you have anything to do with the body in the gym?"

"No, sir."

Bruce frowned. Did the police have evidence they thought connected Richard to the crime? _Don't tell me I'll have to sort out that bungle on top of everything else!_

Gordon pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and held it up. "This yours?"

"Looks like it. I gave it to the police last night when they asked for all the phones and cameras."

Gordon opened it and clicked to the photos file. "You took quite a few pictures last night, Richard. The funny thing is, you took them all right after the body fell out of the ceiling, and you didn't take pictures of anything else all night. You want to tell me about that?"

Bruce waited in sudden tension for the answer, but he shouldn't have worried. Still perfectly calm, Richard shrugged and said, "I took those for the police. In those crime shows on TV the cops always want to take a lot of pictures right after a crime's been committed in case the criminal stuck around to watch. So I thought I could do the same thing. Did they help?"

Gordon hesitated, then nodded. "I'm sure they will. You can have your phone back." He tossed it the small distance between the chairs, and Rick caught it neatly.

"Are we done?" Bruce asked hopefully.

"Not quite yet, Mr. Wayne. I'd like to ask just a few more questions about that party in the basement. That is, if Richard doesn't mind."

The last statement was heavy with sarcasm, but Richard responded anyway. "Sure. I mean, it was supposed to be this big secret tradition, but I think that's kind of blown now."

"You could say that." Gordon settled back in his chair, and although he seemed more relaxed, Bruce was reminded of a cat waiting silently by a mouse hole. "This party happens every year?"

"That's what Johnny said. This was my first year."

"How did you find out about it?"

"Darla was playing the hostess, and she came up and found me in the gym and took me downstairs."

"Did you take a date with you?"

"No sir. She … got sick at the last minute."

There was a fraction of hesitation in the sentence, and Bruce's jaw clenched in sudden anger. Alfred had relayed his conversation with Matthew Fredricks.

Gordon had also noticed the hesitation, and he examined the boy with narrowed eyes before proceeding to his next question. "What was going on at the party?"

"Johnny had it set up like a mini-casino. You could play blackjack, craps, or poker."

"Who was there?"

"A lot of people. I'm pretty sure they were all students."

"Was there alcohol?"

"Yes."

"Were you drinking?"

"No, sir."

Gordon drew the next silence out, and Bruce fervently wished he would just get to the point. Watching Richard being interrogated was more stressful than he had anticipated.

"And which did you play, Richard? Blackjack? Craps? Or Poker?"

"All three."

"I hear you had a pretty lucky night. Broke the blackjack bank, didn't you?"

"It was a good night," Richard admitted.

_Wait a minute. _Bruce frowned, trying to remember. _Didn't he and Alex have an agreement about gambling?_

"And you finished up with poker."

"Yes."

"Who did you play poker with, Richard?"

"Uh …" Richard frowned, as if trying to remember. "Erik Homkes, Jacob Hill, Scott Brabon, Melissa Norris, and Trevor Wren."

"Did my daughter play at any point?"

"Not while I was at the table."

_Here it comes_, thought Bruce.

"Then would you mind telling me how you ended up betting against her in your underwear?"

"You did _what_?" Bruce burst out.

Richard jerked around toward him. "Man, don't even _start_ with me."

For a dangerous moment, their private feud bubbled dangerously close to the surface, and then Gordon helpfully offered a magazine. "It's all over the tabloids this morning."

Bruce examined the pictures and suddenly laughed. "Duckies? Really?"

Neither Richard nor Gordon looked amused, so he resumed a properly sober expression, but inwardly he was relieved. If this was only a matter of a media blowup, it would soon die away, as he well knew from personal experience. And from the looks of the photos, this was exactly the kind of thing Bruce himself might have pulled.

"I'm waiting for an explanation," Gordon reminded them, his expression beginning to look dangerous, and Bruce realized that he had switched fully out of cop mode into the more dangerous protective father mode.

For the first time since the questions had begun, Richard looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Uh, sir, it might be better if you talked to Barbara instead of me."

"Oh I will talk to her. But right now, I'd really like to hear your side of the story."

Richard drew a deep breath and began to talk too quickly. "So we're playing poker, right, and everyone else drops out except me and the Tren … I mean Trevor. And I've kind of won his last chip, and then Barbara says she'll put up a kiss for Trevor's bet, and Johnny said it was legit, but he made me decide how much it was worth, and so like, I just put everything I had into the pot, right, because it felt weird trying to like, put a price on a girl like that. And that's what happened." He fell silent and stared sulkily down at the floor.

Bruce's glance flickered from his embarrassed ward to the inscrutable face of the Commissioner as the silence stretched out. He was about to intervene when Gordon demanded, "Who won?"

"I did," Rick muttered.

There was a beat of silence and then the Commissioner rose to his feet. "Good for you, kid." Rick looked up in surprise, but before he could say anything, Gordon continued, "Those are all the questions I have for now. My people may be in touch again later. Thanks for your time, Mr. Wayne, Richard." He strode toward the library door that Alfred held open.

Bruce watched the door shut behind his unknowing ally and turned to find Richard glaring at him. "Now what did I do?" he exclaimed in exasperation.

"Aren't you going to yell at me or something?"

"For what? You handled that well. Heck, I may start hiring you to do my PR work."

"Oh." Rick's hostile look faded. "You're not mad?"

"About the strip poker? The card counting? The publicity?"

"Yeah."

Bruce shrugged. "No." After a moment he asked carefully, "Is that really what happened with Barbara?"

"Pretty much." Rick grimaced. "It was really awkward. The only thing I could think of to do was turn it into a joke."

"The Commissioner seemed to like your explanation."

"I don't think he likes Trevor," Rick replied slowly.

It was the longest conversation they'd had in days, and Bruce felt suddenly hopeful that they had somehow negotiated a ceasefire, but he carefully didn't comment on it or even look at his ward, instead flipping through the magazine Gordon had left behind. "I wonder what their source is. The police collected all the cameras, didn't they?"

"Somebody probably emailed out the pictures before their camera got confiscated."

"It could be useful to know who."

"I could hack into their system," Rick offered.

Bruce nodded. "Do it. I doubt it's hard. I'll join you as soon as I've had some breakfast."

Alfred reentered the library. "I thought you and Alex had reached an agreement about gambling," he said, pinning Rick with a stern gaze.

Rick shifted in his chair, looking slightly guilty. "Alfred, this wasn't a real casino. And it's not like I even got to keep anything I won."

"Your classmates played with you in good faith. How will they feel if they learn the truth?"

"Alfred, considering everything that happened last night, I don't think they're really going to care who won the poker game, especially since gambling is illegal on school property and the money will all be redistributed anyway," Bruce interjected, sending a pleading look at his butler. _For the first time in almost a week he's actually talking to me. Please, don't screw that up._

"I'm going to get started on that project," Rick said hurriedly and ducked out of the room before Alfred could continue his lecture.

Bruce looked at the older man accusingly. "I thought you said not to be too hard on him."

"That was before I knew what he'd done."

"So what? I've done far worse, and at your instigation, I might add. You were the one who said, 'Drive fast cars, date movie stars.' The pictures really aren't that bad."

"I didn't say, use your talents to dupe innocent children out of their money, and it's not the pictures I'm worried about."

"I don't think it was about the money. Trevor is dating Barbara Gordon."

"Yes. And Richard was unscrupulously selfish. That is what concerns me," Alfred said sharply, and left.

* * *

Sunday night, Rick lay flat on his back, moodily staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, brooding over the Valentines dance. Although outwardly he was trying to remain as collected and casual as always, inwardly he was a conflicted tangle. From Mr. Fredricks' unfair judgment, to his own behavior at the casino party, to Barbara's manipulative wager, to Alfred's disappointment and Bruce's easy acceptance of the card counting, he couldn't decide what he felt or thought about anything. Usually he could cope with a little confusion, taking things as they came, but this was just too much. And never before had he felt so unable to talk to either Alfred or Bruce.

His phone rang and he picked it up immediately, relieved by the distraction. The lighted screen read Niko and he answered eagerly, hoping for an invitation that would take him out of the house. "Hey," he said easily as he pressed Talk, but it was a girl's voice who demanded, "Hi, can you come over?"

"Ariadne?" he asked cautiously.

"I am the only girl who lives with Niko, excluding my mother, who has no reason to call you," she said cheerfully. "So can you come?"

"Right now?"

"In an hour. I need some help with a project, and Niko's out, even though he was supposed to stay home with me."

Rick rolled his eyes, but asked anyway, "What kind of project? For school?"

"Why would I call you about schoolwork? It's a project like Mrs. Purcell."

"Another flea collar?"

"Something better. Please?"

"Fine," he sighed. "I suppose I have nothing better to do. I'll see you in about an hour."

"Great," she enthused and hung up.

When he arrived at the Pappas apartment, there was a faint smell of chocolate in the air. It took Ari a minute to open the door after his knock, and despite the splashing that filled the interval, she still had streaks of icing on her arms, her face, and her hair.

"Come in!" she beamed, throwing the wide the door.

"Aren't you even going to ask who I am?" he asked, hurrying in so that too much heat wouldn't escape into the freezing stairwell. "I could be a burglar or something."

"Don't be silly, obviously I know it's you. I smelled you."

"Oh. Sorry about that." Rick lifted his arm and sniffed speculatively, trying to remember if he had showered that morning.

"I didn't mean you _smell_. I meant you have _a smell_. Everybody does, only most people don't notice."

"Oh," Rick was distracted from the ramifications of this information by the sight of the kitchen table. In the center rested a lopsided, double layer chocolate cake. He knew it was chocolate because the icing was spread patchily, and he thought there might be more of it on Ariadne than on the cake.

"How does it look?" she asked anxiously. "It's only my second cake, and mama helped with the first one."

"It's, uh, fine. I mean, maybe the icing needs to be smoothed out a little."

She sighed. "I know. I don't have trouble with the baking, but I never get the icing right, because I can't feel to see where it's already gone. I mean I could, but then there would be fingerprints all over the cake, which some people object to. Like Stinko Niko."

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Skatz's club, and he wouldn't take me."

"Well, you had this project to do, right?" Rick offered diplomatically.

"Yes. And it's important," she said firmly. "Can you fix the icing?"

"I'll try. I've never actually done this before," he admitted, picking up a sticky knife and trying to push the top layer of the cake so that it rested evenly on its base. "You have chocolate all over your face, by the way."

Muttering under her breath, she trotted off to the bathroom, while Rick awkwardly smoothed the icing over the cake's bald patches. By the time Ari returned, damp but clean, the cake looked less like something the cat had dragged in and more like something you would want to eat.

"Is it finished?" she asked eagerly.

"Yeah, I think it's pretty good," he announced, setting down the knife and feeling pleased with himself.

"Good. Here's a box. Try not to get the icing on the sides."

Rick carefully maneuvered the cake on its paper plate into the box. "Now what?"

"Now you have to write a note."

"Why don't you write it? It's your cake."

"Oh sure, I'll just type it up in Braille, because _that_ wouldn't be a dead giveaway."

"Right. What do you want it to say?" he asked, accepting the notebook and pen she thrust at him.

"Good luck, Mr. Rivera. And sign it—"

"A friend of Batman, I know."

"Mr. Rivera's been going to night school so he can be a CPA, and his big test is tomorrow."

"Does he live in your building?"

"No. He's a friend of Hector's. We'll have to take the train to get there."

"The train!" Rick protested. "It's dark and freezing out there."

"You're not scared, are you?"

"I'm just smart enough to know it's not a good idea to take little girls for walks in Gotham late at night."

"Just because I'm short, it doesn't mean I'm a little girl."

Rick ignored her. "Where's your mom?"

"She is at a wake with my father and won't be back until very late."

"What about Demetrios?" he asked desperately. "You shouldn't leave him here alone."

"He's at a friend's house for the night. Come on, Rick, it's just a little train ride."

"Yeah, the last time I went somewhere with you, we ended up cornered by a gang."

"Don't worry, it's a big night at the club. All Skatz's guys will be there."

"There are other gangs," he pointed out, irritated by her persistence.

"We're not going to a bad section of town," she pleaded, "and Mr. Rivera takes his test tomorrow. We have to deliver it tonight."

He gave up. "All right, but I'll go by myself. You're staying here."

Fifteen minutes later, Ari tightened her grip on his arm and sniffed the air. "It's nice out tonight, isn't it? No wind."

Rick stared at her bitterly and didn't answer. He still wasn't sure exactly how she had gotten her way, except that she could argue longer and harder than anyone else he knew. "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

"Yes, I went there once with Hector."

Rick remained dubious, but she did know exactly what train to get on and which stop was theirs. She remained silent for most of the train ride, something he considered a minor miracle, but as they left the stop and headed down the street, she asked, "Did you have a nice Valentine's Day?"

"Not really," he muttered.

"Did your girlfriend dump you?"

"Kind of," Rick said briefly.

"She's stupid then. You're nice. You're the only person I know who would actually be out here with me tonight."

Rick scowled. "Stop trying to flatter me and don't get used to it. I just didn't have anything better to do."

That silenced her until they reached the duplex where the Riveras lived.

"Are there lights on?" Ari asked eagerly, straining her face toward the house. "Does it look like they're home?"

"Yeah, a couple of windows are lit."

"Ok, put the cake on the porch, knock on the door and run away."

Rick rolled his eyes, but did as she ordered. They crouched behind a garbage can and Rick watched as a woman came out and picked up the box. "She's gone," he announced finally, standing up.

"That went perfectly," she enthused as they walked back toward the train stop. "Usually I don't mind being blind, but sometimes it's really a pain. You make good eyes, though."

"Thanks. I think."

"You're welcome," Ari chimed, swinging around a corner and pulling him down a new street.

Rick tried to slow her down, grabbing her arm. "Hold on, this isn't the way back to the train."

"I know. But Skatz's club is only five blocks away, so I thought we could pick up Niko on the way back."

Rick stopped dead in the middle of the icy sidewalk. "No."

"Oh come on, it's super close. Niko shouldn't stay out this late anyway."

"No," Rick repeated.

"Fine, I'll go by myself." She pulled her collapsible cane out of her coat pocket and unsnapped it. "Thanks for your help. Goodbye."

He grabbed both her arms before she had taken two steps. "If I let you go to that club, Niko is going to kill me." He tugged on her arm, but she obstinately planted her feet.

"I'll tell him it was all my idea."

"Yeah, considering I led you out here, I don't think your taking the blame will affect how hard he hits me. Come on!"

"No."

"Fine," Rick snapped, heaved her over his shoulder, and started hiking back toward the train stop.

"Put me down!" she shrieked, and he winced as she delivered a sharp blow with her cane across his legs.

Reaching back around, he yanked it out of her hand. "Stop yelling."

"If you don't put me down, I'm going to scream out that I'm being kidnapped!"

"If you do that, they'll call the police, and they will call your mother."

Ari immediately stopped wiggling, and then she said in an angry voice, "Put me down at least. I'll go back to the stupid train."

She was as good as her word, but maintained a frosty silence until they were climbing the stairs to the apartment. She stopped abruptly between the second and third floors and declared, "I'm sorry. You were really nice to help me, and I shouldn't have tried to force you to go to the club."

"No," he agreed.

"But you didn't give in just because I'm blind and short."

Rick snorted. "Can we go upstairs? I'm freezing my butt off."

She resumed climbing but kept talking. "It's really weird. Half of the people I meet won't let me do anything because they're afraid I'll hurt myself, and the other half give me whatever I want because they feel sorry for me. It's seriously annoying."

"As annoying as being blind?"

"Way more," she promised, slipping her key into the lock and opening the door. "Do you want to come in?"

"I should go home. It's pretty late."

She nodded. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome," he replied, his anger seeping away.

"Will you help me next time?"

"Depends on whether I have anything better to do."

Ari grinned. "That means yes."

"It does not!"

"Yes it does!" she sang, and shut the door in his face.

Rick stared at it, shaking his head, and then started down the stairs. Ariadne was the strangest girl he had ever met. She was often as aggravating as heck, but she could also be surprisingly good company. And her ideas—they were weird, but nice too. Who else would take a train across a dark and dangerous city to deliver a good luck message to a near stranger? He suddenly found himself wondering whether Barbara ever would, and then pushed the question aside as irrelevant.

* * *

Rick had been rather dreading the return to school on Monday, but Bruce had been right in thinking the prank would be far more important than the poker game. A few students quacked as he walked past, and some others congratulated him on demolishing Trevor and his girlfriend. (These congratulations made him feel slightly guilty, especially when they came from someone he'd won money from, but the guilt was easy to squash, especially since the school had given everyone their money back and he, along with all of Johnny's other party guests, would be serving heavy detention.) But most of the gossip flying around the hallways was about the bloody dummy in the gym.

Amanda was very cool to him in history, which was just fine with Rick, and Darla and Tracy invited him to sit at their table for lunch, confirming he had reached a new level of popularity. In fact, the only really awkward moment happened in math. He slipped into his seat just before the bell, ready with a friendly smile to assure Carmen it didn't matter that her grandfather was coming over all medieval. But she had apparently reverted to her former self and refused to look at him, using her hair to shield her face.

"So how was your weekend?" he asked, as soon as Ms. Simpkins was done with her lecture, and they were supposed to be doing individual work.

"Not as much fun as yours," she snapped, pushing back her hair so that he could see her face.

With a shock, Rick saw that she was actually angry. "Yeah, it was ok," he said slowly. "Sorry you couldn't come to the dance."

Carmen slammed her pencil against the desk with a loud snap. "You know, I thought my grandpa was being really unfair that night. And me and Grandma both stuck up for you. We said that just because you were Mr. Wayne's ward, it didn't mean you were anything like him. I told him you were smart and polite and kind. I guess I looked pretty stupid the next morning."

Rick looked down at the textbook, trying to think of what to say. It hadn't occurred to him that anyone outside of the immediate circle of the party would be affected by what he had done, and remembering how upset he had been by Mr. Fredrick's actions, he momentarily felt ashamed. But still, he was a student at Bailey now, and he was supposed to be acting like one. _Price of the game_, he decided, and so all he said was, "Do you still want to study?"

"I gotta get out of this class," she muttered, and slammed open her book.

One disadvantage of his new popularity was that it made it harder to fade unnoticed into the background. Rick had to double back down hallways several times before he could slip unseen down into the basement.

It had occurred to him that Johnny must have had alternate routes into the school for all of his casino supplies, some of which he might not have discovered yet, but it would be useful to know about them. Deciding to start in the party room itself, he navigated the confusing underground space until he was found the right door. It proved to be locked, and he was about to try picking the lock, when he sensed eyes and found David Stern watching him.

"Lose something?" the other boy asked coolly.

"Yeah, actually. I left my lucky pen in there on Friday. The cops probably took it for evidence or something, though."

David continued to watch him, his face hard to read in the dim light. Still, it was the friendliest conversation Rick had ever had with him, so he asked, "Were you there? At the dance?"

"No."

"You missed some pretty big excitement."

"I guess."

Rick stepped closer and was surprised by how thin and white David's face appeared and by the blackness of the circles under his eyes. Wondering if the guy had started taking something the doctor hadn't prescribed, he asked, "Are you ok? Because you don't look so good."

"What is it with you? You want to be a nurse when you grow up?"

"No. I just … Look, my mom was murdered too, ok? I know what it feels like."

"No you don't."

Rick was suddenly angry. "Maybe it was a long time ago, but I remember _exactly_ what it feels like."

For once, David was not angry in return. "Yeah. But you didn't kill your mom yourself, did you?"

"What are you talking about?"

David drew in a breath, about to respond. Then he clamped his lips shut and shook his head. "Nothing."

Rick blew out a frustrated breath. "Look, I know this sounds cheesy, but if you ever want to talk to someone, well, you know where I go to school."

"Sure," David said softly, then turned and walked away.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Amanda stood in front of her locker, scowling at a wrapped package. She had bought a birthday present for Rick two weeks ago, but now she wasn't sure she wanted to give it to him. But what else was she going to do with a vintage Beach Boys album signed by all three Wilsons? It had cost her a ridiculous amount of money on Ebay, a large chunk of her savings account, and she'd lost three other auctions before she'd managed to get this.

It was just never enough, she reflected bitterly, tears welling up in her eyes. She'd tried so hard, all the tricks she read about in _Seventeen_ and that her mom recommended, making sure to always take extra care with her hair and makeup and wear the right clothes and use her body language to show she was interested. She'd found out everything about him that she could so that she could relate to him, reading every article in every magazine and even getting April to steal Hal's Facebook password so that she could look at Rick's profile, which was how she knew he liked the Beach Boys' old stuff. But for all her hard work, Rick would barely talk to her. He probably hadn't even noticed that she'd been ignoring him for two days.

He'd gone to that party that Amanda wasn't cool enough or rich enough to be invited to and won a kiss from Barbara Gordon who was a total ice queen even if she was gorgeous, and now he was practically dating Darla. Or maybe Tracy. But whichever one it was they probably didn't even know anything about him, but just because they were cheerleaders they could catch Rick's attention when Amanda could not because she wasn't a cheerleader, and because …

_Face it, Amanda_, she told herself. _You're too fat._ She examined her face critically in the mirror, pushing at the curves of her cheeks and chin. _Fat, fat, fat. But I can change that_. Squaring her shoulders in determination, she picked up the wrapped record and her sack lunch. The lunch went into the trash on the way to Rick's locker.

To her relief, he was standing there alone, sorting through his books. "Happy Birthday!" she burst out, pasting on her best smile.

He turned with that strained look of politeness she recognized all too well. "Uh, thanks."

"Here." She thrust the present toward him.

"Thanks," he said again, still smiling, but she could sense his reluctance.

Although she'd been imagining for days the look of happy surprise he would wear when he opened the package, she suddenly knew that it had only been a daydream, that even if he did open it, he'd just give her that cool thanks again, and it would horrible. "So are you taking your driving test today?" she asked hurriedly, to keep him from ripping off the paper.

"Yeah. I have an appointment later this morning."

"You get to get out of school? That's cool."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, good luck. I'll see you later," she blurted before hurrying away down the hallway.

He wasn't in history, so she guessed that he'd already left for his driving test. She drifted through the rest of the morning in an unhappy haze, going over and over in her mind things she should have done differently. She should have smiled more brightly and tried flipping her hair and paid more attention to sucking in her stomach. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_, she thought during lunch as she sat next to April pretending she wasn't hungry. _Really stupid._

The silent litany continued all through the next period and followed her down the hall to Life Skills. Rick still wasn't there, but Barbara Gordon was, sitting in her desk with the same cool, arrogant expression she always wore.

_If she's so much better than the rest of us why does she even come to school?_ Amanda thought furiously, throwing herself into her own desk. _Who would even want to be kissed by such a snob? I hate her!_

Mr. Davis's lecture was as boring as it always was, and Amanda didn't even try to pay attention. Her gaze drifted to the window, and she watched a couple of birds fly away as someone approached from the parking lot. It was a guy, wearing a dark leather jacket, and after a moment she recognized Rick. He was walking jauntily, so she guessed that he had passed his test. Making a mental note to give him a big congratulations as soon as she could, she watched him until he was out of sight, and slowly returned her gaze to the front of the room.

"Never underestimate the importance of good budgeting," Mr. Davis was saying, as pointed emphatically at a colored pie chart taped to the board. "Even if you make a lot of money, it's easy to overspend if you don't know where it's—"

The classroom door slammed open, drowning out the last word. David Stern stood in the doorway, a rifle gripped in his hands and pointed right at Amanda. The room sat in stunned and terrified silence as his wild gaze swept over the desks. "Where is he?" he shouted.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Aren't you all glad I posted two chapters? I couldn't, in good conscience give you all yet another cliffhanger after leaving you with such an evil one for two and a half months. I hope the chapter wasn't too rambling—it's an absolute beast (22 pages, eek!) but this story needs to get a move on! So drop a quick review toward your bonus scene and proceed to Chapter 18!


	18. February: Fugue en Forte

**A/N** Read on, fanfiction warriors! Read on.

**Disclaimer** Still can't remember what goes here. My doctor calls it selective amnesia.

**Chapter 18**

_The art of losing isn't hard to master;__  
so many things seem filled with the intent  
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.  
__....  
__— __Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture  
I love)I shan't have lied. It's evident  
__the art of losing's not too hard to master  
though it may look like (__Write__ it!) like disaster._

_- Elizabeth Bishop_

A harried looking clerk with three pencils sticking out of her messy bun scribbled on the top sheet of a triplicating carbon form, then tore off the first page and handed it to Rick. "There's your temporary license for the car." She repeated the process on a nearly identical form. "And there's the one for the motorcycle. Your permanent license will be mailed to you in two to four weeks. Until then, make sure you have these whenever you're operating a motorized vehicle. Any questions? Good. Next!"

"Perfect scores on both tests," Rick reminded Bruce as they walked out of the DMV testing center to the parking lot. "Can't I ride the bike home? Pretty please?"

"You know the deal. Motorcycle inside the Manor grounds only until you're eighteen."

Rick groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically. "That's majorly ridiculous. Alfred is acting like an old lady."

"He's just worried about you. He's got all kinds of frightening statistics about teenage motorcycle accidents."

"Perfect score," Rick reminded.

"No. Wouldn't it be sad if he killed me on your birthday?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rick grumbled. "Can I at least drive the car home by myself?"

"You seriously expect me and Frank to double up on the bike? You can drive your new wheels to school all by yourself."

"Right," Rick sighed, unlocking the doors of the Lamborghini he'd used to take his test. He knew he should feel more excited about his new car, the Ferrari California _was_ a sweet ride, but he'd been daydreaming about riding with the wind in his hair, and although the Ferrari had a retractable roof, he'd look like an idiot driving with it down in February.

At home, Alfred had lunch waiting, and Bruce waited until they were done eating before flourishing a camera and declaring, "Ok, let's go unite the birthday boy with his birthday present!"

Rick obligingly led the little procession out to the garage, privately wondering what Bruce was so excited about. They'd picked out the car together a couple of months earlier, so it wasn't like it was a big birthday surprise or anything. He wondered just how many pictures he was going to have to pose for.

Frank met them in the covered entryway that separated the garage from the house. "All ready?" Bruce asked eagerly.

"Yes, sir."

Bruce pulled a scarf out of his pocket. "Ok, it was too big to wrap, so I'm going to blindfold you."

"Bruce. I've already seen the car, remember?"

"Just humor me."

Rick groaned, but allowed himself to be blindfolded and led into the garage. Bruce led him several steps into the familiar smells of wax and rubber then nudged him slightly to the right before announcing, "Ok, you can look."

"Hmmm, let me guess what I'm going to see. Could it possibly be … a blue Ferrari?" He jerked the scarf from his eyes, and then his jaw dropped. The California was there, its midnight blue paint glinting sharply in the overhead lights, but it wasn't the machine that was pinning his attention. Right in front of him, a gleaming red and silver, rested a brand new Buell Lightning SB9SX, whose cut down design made it perfect for his lighter weight and perfect for Gotham's city traffic and in general just … perfect.

"But Alfred …" he stammered, and then he realized the butler was smirking at him. "You've been playing me!" he realized. "You've been playing me for months!"

"Well, it was more fun that way," drawled Bruce. He clicked a button on the digital camera and held up the screen. "Check it out, you look like a fish! I'm putting this in the next press release."

"At least I'm fully clothed," Rick said mildly. He couldn't be even slightly upset when there was that much steel perfection a mere five feet way. And it was all his. Bursting into a grin, he pulled his guardian into a bear hug. "Thank you!"

Bruce laughed. "Hey, watch out for my ribs, there, would you? Happy Birthday, kid."

"Thanks, Alfred."

"Happy Birthday," the butler returned as he accepted his hug, but then he added, "In all seriousness, you will drive responsibly?"

"I'll be an angel," Rick declared.

"Not the most reassuring promise when you're riding a motorcycle."

Rick rolled his eyes. "From heaven, Alfred, not the other place."

Bruce handed over the key. "Ok, get out of here. I promised the school you'd be back before the end of the day, so don't dawdle too much on your way to class and don't forget to show up for your detention."

"Scout's honor," Rick swore, holding up two fingers. He pulled on his new jacket and helmet, slung his book bag across his chest and climbed on, taking a moment to savor the feel and balance before he switched on the engine. It roared into life, a big howl for a relatively small bike, and he had to grin—someone had already tricked out the exhaust for him.

"Ready?" Frank shouted.

Rick shot him a thumbs up, and the garage door rolled upward. One more moment spent catching the rhythm of the power throbbing beneath him, and then he shot out of the garage like a bat out of, well, the Batcave.

He took the long route to school, not really wanting to get into any bigger trouble than he was already in, but unable to resist taking a few extra minutes to play with his new baby. She shook a little at the lowest speeds, but once he ramped up, the ride became liquid smooth. The bike took the tight turns like she'd been made to do nothing else, and by the time he pulled into the Bailey parking lot, Rick was head over heels in love. It wasn't quite as good as flying The Plane, but it was very, very close.

* * *

"Where is who, David?" Mr. Davis asked, his voice astonishingly calm. He stepped slowly toward the boy, his hands outstretched soothingly. "If you'll just put the gun down, I'm sure we can find—"

"Stay back!" snarled David, swinging the rifle muzzle around to point at the teacher. "Where is Richard Grayson?"

"He's not here," someone said, sounding very calm and controlled, and to her astonishment, Amanda realized it was herself. "He left school to take his driving test. He's not back yet."

David swore and swung the gun around again to point shakily at her. "Don't lie to me, bitch. Where is he?"

"David, Richard really isn't here," Mr. Davis began, taking another step toward the boy.

Unhesitatingly, David swung the rifle back and pulled the trigger.

Somebody screamed as the shot exploded, and Mr. Davis, looking mildly surprised, put a hand over the crimson flower that blossomed on his shirt front, before sinking slowly to the floor.

"Stay in the room," David hissed, pointing the rifle a final time at the class, "and nobody else gets hurt." He backed out of the doorway and then ran down the hall. There was a shout and then another shot exploded.

Amanda bolted from her chair toward the door, but she was stopped short by a hard grip on her arm.

"Where are you going?" Barbara demanded, her face pale and her green eyes blazing.

"To warn Rick, I just saw him in the parking lot!" And jerking her arm free, she started to run.

* * *

Alfred set down his teacup and stared abstractedly at the leaves swirling in the bottom of the cup. "He should be at the school by now, don't you think?"

"Cut him some slack, will you? He made one tiny screw up, not a Unabomber confession. He'll go to school. Although at his age, I doubt I would have been able to resist ditching."

"You know he's going to shave those corners too fast."

"He's alert, got excellent reflexes, and a great machine. Plus, he got perfect scores on two driving tests. How many kids can do that? He'll be fine."

"No doubt," Alfred murmured, taking his cup over to the sink.

Bruce rolled his eyes at his butler's back. "Look, mama hen, I didn't have time to test all the modifications I had R&D put in the Ferrari. I'll take it out to make sure everything's working ok, and swing by the school to double check that the bike is in the parking lot."

"It couldn't hurt," Alfred said firmly.

"You know, I think you worry more about him during the day than at night."

"At night," Alfred returned calmly, "he's with you."

Bruce scowled. _Some guarantee_, he thought but he didn't say anything more before heading for the garage. Out on the road, he was pleased to note that his technicians' tinkering didn't appear to have affected the car's performance any. The car was actually a prototype for a new biometric security system that Wayne Enterprises was developing. Such systems did already exist, but their equipment was in general too inflexible and bulky to make them suitable for a streamlined sports car. The goal was to make it so fast and invisible that the driver wouldn't be aware of what was happening, even as fingerprint and facial recognition scans, as well as weight and height gauges, meant that engine would only start for drivers registered with the car's computer and also that a car key was obsolete.

_And if we can make it affordable_, he mused, _we're far enough ahead that we'll corner the market, and make a killing. Better way to do it than designing missiles._

He was about eight minutes from Bailey when his phone rang.

* * *

Amanda Irving twisted away and darted out to the hall, and Barbara let her go, hoping she would be able to warn Rick in time. There was a part of her that was still dazed, wondering whether this could really be happening, but the rest of her had shaken off the paralysis and was hurrying to the teacher's desk and kneeling beside Mr. Davis. He was bleeding heavily and his pulse was erratic and faint. Barbara didn't know if pressure on a bullet wound like this would help or not, but it was the only thing she could think of to do. Yanking off her school blazer, she pushed it against the crimson stain. "Scott, come here!" she barked, skewering a guy in the front row with her eyes.

He hurried forward, tripping slightly over his own feet, and dropped beside her.

"Hold this," she commanded.

"I … I don't …"

"Do it!" she shouted, taking one of his hands and pushing it against the blazer before springing up and running back to her bookbag. Pulling out her phone, she dialed 911. "This Barbara Gordon at Bailey Prep. We have a shooter on the premises. One teacher has been shot in room 103, and he's in critical condition."

"We're sending units immediately," the dispatcher promised, and Barbara snapped her phone shut. Glancing around, she found everyone staring at her, terrified but as though they were waiting for something. "What should we do?" someone gasped out.

Barbara stuck her phone in her pocket and made her decision. "I'm going out to see if I can help. As soon as I'm gone, barricade the door until the paramedics come." She ran out of the room and heard the door slam behind her. _At least someone in there has some sense._

* * *

Double checking that the security system was on and giving a final, loving pat to the front chassis, Rick tucked his helmet under his arm and hurried toward the front entrance. If he hurried, he could still check in at the office and make the second half of Life Skills.

The halls were very quiet as he pushed through the front door. He could see Miss Aylmer through the glass wall of the office. She looked up and smiled at him, gesturing that he should come on in, and he had his hand on the doorknob when two shots rang out, followed by screams.

Instinctively, Rick dropped his helmet and sprinted down the hallway, picturing the school in his head, trying to figure out exactly where the sounds of panic were coming from. He turned a corner and ran headlong into Amanda. She clutched his arms to keep from falling and looked up in relief that immediately dissolved into terror.

"Rick, you've got hide, he's looking for you!"

"Who?" he demanded. "What's happening?"

"David's got a gun and he shot Mr. Davis and he said he was looking for you. We have to get out of the school," she sobbed, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him back toward the front door. "He shot somebody else, too, a student, I ran past her in the hall."

"Where is he now?" Rick demanded, resisting her attempts to pull him down the hallway.

"He's back there, the way you were going! Don't you understand? He's going to kill you!"

"Where exactly back there?" Rick shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. "You have to tell me exactly where David is!"

"Right here!"

Rick looked up to see David Stern ten feet down the hallway, leveling a rifle at them, his eyes wide and his hands shaking. _He looks terrified,_ Rick thought, even as Amanda stumbled around in front of him, throwing her arms wide as though that would somehow ward off a bullet.

"No!"

"Get away from him!" David screamed.

"It's ok, Amanda. It's ok." Rick pushed her gently to the side, out of the line of fire. She tried to resist, but was crying so hard that she no longer could. "I heard you were looking for me?" he said calmly, stepping toward David, ignoring the gun and focusing on his wild eyes.

David nodded jerkily and gestured with the gun down the hall. "Move. That way."

Rick obeyed, trying to scan the hallway to see how many people would be in danger if he tried to take the gun. There were too many: Amanda, at least five other students standing petrified as he walked toward them, and then Miss Aylmer's frantic voice calling, "David! For God's sake, what are you doing?"

"Shut up!" he screamed. "Anybody talks, anybody moves, I'll kill him!" Rick started to turn, to see where the gun was being pointed, and felt the barrel rammed into his back. "I said move!"

_At least if it's in my back, I know where it is,_ he thought, grimly aware that if this shot came, there was no protective armor to ward it off. And then, _Idiot_, he suddenly thought and jammed in the button on the side of his watch, holding it down to make sure it caught. It was his panic button, the one he'd been carrying ever since he'd been kidnapped at age eight, the one that he'd never used because it was only for extreme emergencies. _I think this qualifies_.

* * *

Bruce maneuvered the phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen, his blood chilling. It was a number he had memorized a long time ago, but had hoped he would never actually see. Looking up just in time to swerve around a braking pickup, he hit the accelerator and called Alfred.

The butler picked up immediately. "I know, Master Wayne, I'm on my way down. It will take about five minutes to get preliminary coordinates."

"Damn it," Bruce muttered, weaving in and out between an SUV and a trailer. Why hadn't he made immediate access to that program a priority? Five minutes at his increased speed could get him to Bailey, but if Richard wasn't at school …

"Master Wayne, police dispatch just got a call about a shooter. Shots fired, at least one wounded."

Bruce swore again and dropped the phone so that he could drive with both hands. He fishtailed slightly as he turned onto the ramp, but pulled out of it and two minutes later was skidding to a stop right in front of the school.

"Alfred?" he demanded snatching up the phone before jumping out of the car and hurtling toward the front door.

"Another minute, it's searching for the coordinates."

"How many shooters?"

"Just one reported. A student."

* * *

David marched Rick down the hallway at gunpoint, made a familiar turn, and Rick suddenly realized where they were going. _No other people in the basement_, he thought hopefully. _Bad light. I could have a chance._ He opened the door with the faulty lock and started down the stairs, urged on by the rifle muzzle.

"David," he tried as they made their way through the dim and damp passages.

"Shut up," David snarled, prodding him on more quickly.

They came at last, as Rick had thought they would, to the doorless room deep in the recesses of the basement. But where before it had been filled with an eerie orderliness, it was now in chaos. The masks had been violently ripped from the wall, the desks were overturned, and candles rolled everywhere underfoot. David pushed him forward until his nose was practically pushed against the moldy plaster. The photograph he had seen before was nailed there now, one nail through each face.

"Do you know who they are?" David whispered.

"Your mom and your grandpa," Rick said slowly.

"I killed them."

* * *

There was a girl lying halfway down the hallway with Ms. Simpkins kneeling beside her, tying a scarf around her bleeding leg.

"She ok?" Barbara asked, dropping beside the whimpering student.

"I think it's only a flesh wound," the math teacher replied grimly, "but we need to get her out of the hallway."

Together they lifted the girl and pulled her into a nearby empty classroom.

"Wait!" Ms. Simpkins called, catching Barbara's arm just as two more shots echoed down the hallway.

Barbara tore away and started running again. "Barricade the door!" she called back over her shoulder.

The next people she saw were standing in a huddled group by a bank of lockers. Some of them were sobbing. "What happened?" she demanded.

"He sh-shot at us," one of them gasped, and Barbara saw the two gaping holes blown into the lockers.

"Is anybody hurt?"

They all shook their heads, so she started herding them toward the nearest door. It wouldn't open, and she pounded on it. "Let us in! Please!"

She heard furniture scraping on the tiles, and then a teacher cracked open the door. "Come in, hurry!"

Barbara shoved the hysterical students toward the opening and started down the hall again.

"Wait!" somebody shouted after her, but she kept running.

* * *

Rick shook his head. "No. You didn't kill them."

"Yes, I did. I lost the house key, and I didn't tell anybody. The police said there wasn't any sign of forced entry, so that must have been how he got in. I could have told, they could have changed the locks. But I didn't want to get in trouble."

A wave of pity washed over Rick. "You didn't kill them. The guy who pulled the trigger, he did that."

"No. I used to think that, so I tried to ask, I asked for an answer. But they wouldn't talk to me. It's too late. Sit down," David ordered suddenly, pulling Rick away from the wall and using the rifle to direct him to an overturned crate.

Rick crouched on it, his mind immediately spinning out a plan. The minute David's trigger finger so much as twitched, he was going to dive left. He marked out potential weapons and decided on the angle to use to disarm him. It might not have to come to that. David already seemed less violent in the presence of the photograph, and help was on its way, but Rick didn't count on it. The guy was almost incoherent and clearly not logical.

* * *

Bruce listened for a moment outside the door of the school, but hearing nothing, he pushed his way in. The hallway was deserted, and no one appeared behind the glass wall of the office, but in the distance he could hear sobbing. Running forward, he rounded the corner and saw the school secretary with her arms around Amanda Irving. Footsteps sounded on the other end of the corridor, and he snapped his attention there, tensed and ready to attack, but it was Barbara Gordon, her hands empty and her face white. She stared at him, startled, and then Amanda broke free of the secretary's restraining arms.

"Mr. Wayne! Oh Mr. Wayne, he's got Richard!"

"Who has Richard?" Bruce asked, trying to sound calm, not to frighten her more than she was already.

"David. He has a gun, he took him away."

"Where?"

"I don't know!" she wailed.

Bruce put the phone back against his ear. "Damn it, Alfred, I need a location!"

"Preliminary coordinates show he's underground."

Bruce looked at the secretary. "How do I get to the basement?"

But it was Barbara who said, "I'll show you."

She led the way rapidly through the hallways to a door that gaped wide open, dark stairs descending beyond it. She started in, but Bruce caught her arm and pulled her back. "You stay here."

"I can help you! Two of us have a better chance."

She looked determined, and considering whose daughter she was, he doubted she'd give in easily. "We can't give him another hostage."

"If you go by yourself, you could become a hostage," she said fiercely.

He shook his head. "I don't matter. Listen, someone's got to stay up here and tell the police where to find the wounded."

That apparently was the right thing to say, because she finally nodded and backed away, pulling a vibrating phone out of her pocket. "I'm fine, Dad," he heard her say as he darted down the staircase.

"Alfred?" he demanded.

"I've got exact coordinates matched with a map of the school. Go right at the bottom of the stairs."

Bruce did and found himself in a dim hallway full of locked doors. "Now what?"

"There's another staircase. At the bottom you should be able to go straight forward toward Richard."

Bruce jumped down the stairs and almost collided face first with a brick. "Alfred, there's a wall here!"

"They've done renovations, I'm looking for a newer map. Got it. There should be a door ten feet to your right."

There was, and it was open. Bruce ran through two rooms.

"You're very close. Left and then another short left."

* * *

"Why did you bring me here?" Rick asked, hoping to start a conversation that would maybe relax David, get him to stop pointing the gun at Rick's chest.

"A month and a half since they died, just a month and a half," David said slowly. "And you're the only one who even remembers it happened. You understand."

"Yeah," Rick agreed. "I do. My mom died eight years ago, and sometimes it seems like it was only yesterday. But you didn't kill her. You have to believe me."

David only shook his head. "I'm a killer, Richard."

"You're not."

"You understand what it's like."

Rick hesitated, not sure what the right answer was this time. "I think so," he finally said cautiously.

"Then you know what I have to do."

* * *

Somewhere ahead of him a shot exploded.

Bruce dropped the phone and ran, hurtling through the flickering light, slipping on dust, swinging around a corner.

His heart stopped.

Richard stood there, frozen, staring down at the crumpled body of David Stern. The boy lay with half his face blown away, his hands still curled around the stock of his gun.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Ufta! THAT was a lot of writing, my friends! Thanks so much for reading it!

Here's the deal with the bonus scene: If you've already reviewed the last chapter, write your review for this one, and at the end of it put something like, "Second review, send extra." I will be checking to make sure you reviewed both chapters (yes, I'm THAT kind of teacher, hee hee), but that will help me make sure I don't miss anyone by accident. Also, make sure you're signed in so I can send you the scene in a PM. (If you don't have an account, you can leave your email address in the review, but make sure to put spaces between the and the . com because otherwise the site will delete it.)

Cheers and thanks again for reading! It's lovely to be on vacation!


	19. February: For Mixed Voices

**A/N** Can I just say (again) that I hate fight scenes? Even the simplest ones give me the most wretched writer's block. Sigh. This chapter was so supposed to be up yesterday.

On a much happier note, THANK YOU for the gorgeous reviews you all left for the last two chapters! My private wish was that I would get 50, and you guys gave me more than 60! I feel so spoiled!

**Disclaimer** After an intensive and expensive therapy session, I have at last remembered what it is that I am supposed to say here: I do not own … do not own … do not … Darn. There goes my five hundred bucks.

**Disclaimer 2** I generally avoid using excess profanity in my writing, and because of this, I wanted to warn you all that I've chosen to use some much stronger language than usual in this chapter. However, it's confined to one segment of the chapter, so if you're concerned about it, just skip the section that begins with the label INTERVIEW WITH BRUCE WAYNE and ends with a page break line. You won't miss anything vital since the important points of the interview will be reviewed via Gordon's thoughts.

**Chapter 19**

_There was once a baroness whose cruel husband forbade her on pain of death ever to leave the castle where they lived. But defying his orders, she crossed the drawbridge one morning when he was absent and went to visit a person whom she loved very much. When she returned, she found a madman guarding the bridge with a terrible sword. "Unless you give me a basketful of gold, I shall not let you cross the bridge. If you try to cross without paying, I will kill you." Knowing her husband would return by sunset, the Baroness hurried to the house of her wealthy former lover to borrow the money, but he said, "You betrayed me to marry the baron. I owe you nothing." Next, she petitioned her old mother, but the woman refused, saying, "Your ransom would take everything I have left to live on. If I give it to you, I will starve to death." Finally, she went to the house of her best friend, but although the woman offered sympathy, she possessed no money at all. Finally, the baroness begged a boatman to ferry her across to the castle, but because she had no money to pay his fee, he refused. Desperate, the baroness tried to rush across the bridge and was slain by the madman._

_Who was most responsible for the baroness's death?_

_-Traditional Philosophy 101 Puzzle_

"The transcripts you requested, sir."

Gordon accepted the folder from the excessively polite sergeant and nodded her dismissal. Sighing, he glanced wistfully around the cluttered and shabby appointments of his familiar office. Sooner or later he was going to have to move into Loeb's old quarters in City Hall, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He'd been putting off the transfer on the excuse that things were already confused enough at the moment, although having to run things from temporary quarters didn't made it easy for his new chief of police, either.

Pushing the irritating thought of moving away, he opened the folder, scanning portions of the recorded interviews from that afternoon.

INTERVIEW WITH GLADYS AYLMER, SCHOOL SECRETARY. CONDUCTED BY DET. REYNALDO CURTIS.

CURTIS: When did you first become aware that shots were being fired in the school?

AYLMER: I was in the school office, working at my desk. The front wall is glass, but it's very close to the front of the school, and the school walls are very thick. I didn't actually hear the shots, but I saw a student, Richard Grayson, he was out to take his driving test this morning, and he'd just come through the front door. He was coming to the office to check in, when he suddenly turned and ran down the hall. I went after him to see what was wrong, and when I went around the corner, I saw David …

CURTIS: It's all right, just take your time.

AYLMER: I'm sorry. It's just, we've never had anything like this happen at Bailey. We're not some inner city school with gangs. David had a gun, and he was marching Richard down the hallway. He threatened to shoot anyone who intervened.

INTERVIEW WITH AMANDA IRVING, SOPHOMORE. CONDUCTED BY DET. EDWIN GREEN.

GREEN: So you ran out of the classroom to find Richard and warn him. Did you?

IRVING: Yes. I thought he'd still be near the front doors, since I'd just seen him in the parking lot and you have to check in at the office if you come to school in the middle of the day. I found him in the hall, and I told him we had to get out of the school because David was going to kill him. But he wouldn't go. He just kept asking where David was, and then he found us.

GREEN: Who found you, Amanda?

IRVING: David. He pointed his gun at us, and he made Rick go with him.

INTERVIEW WITH BARBARA GORDON, SENIOR. CONDUCTED BY DET. REYNALDO CURTIS.

CURTIS: So the other students went into the classroom, but you kept going, even though you could have gone in to safety?

GORDON: I told you, I've had some self-defense training. I thought maybe I could help.

CURTIS: What happened next?

GORDON: The next people I saw were Amanda Irving, Ms. Aylmer, and Bruce Wayne.

CURTIS: Bruce Wayne? What was he doing there?

GORDON: I don't know. Maybe he dropped Rick off at school. He was out this morning. I think Amanda said it was for his driving test. We're all in the same class.

CURTIS: Did he say anything?

GORDON: Yeah. Amanda told him David had Rick at gunpoint, and Mr. Wayne asked where. But she didn't know, so he put his phone up to his ear, and he asked Alfred for a location.

CURTIS: Who is Alfred?

GORDON: He's the butler.

CURTIS: The butler?

GORDON: They're billionaires. Anyway, the next second Mr. Wayne wants to know how to get into the basement, so I took him to the closest door, which was open. I tried to go down with him, but he wouldn't let me. He told me that someone needed to stay upstairs and tell the police where to find the wounded.

CURTIS: Did you tell him people had been shot?

GORDON: No.

INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD GRAYSON, SOPHOMORE. CONDUCTED BY COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON.

GRAYSON: I parked, went inside to register in the office, but I heard shots, so I went to see what was going on.

GORDON: You knew they were gunshots?

GRAYSON: I shoot skeet sometimes, at the club. I know what a rifle shot sounds like.

GORDON: You know, most people don't run towards a gunshot.

GRAYSON: I took a first aid course at the club last summer. I thought maybe I could help.

GORDON: What happened next?

GRAYSON: Amanda found me. She said David was looking for me with a gun.

GORDON: You didn't try to run away, even though he was coming for you?

GRAYSON: I knew he was upset, about his mom, I mean. I tried to talk to him a few times, because my mom was killed a few years back, and so I thought maybe he needed to talk to somebody who, you know, understood. And the last time I saw him, he seemed friendlier. So I thought maybe if we talked, he would calm down.

GORDON: What happened when he found the two of you?

GRAYSON: Amanda threw herself in front of me, between me and the gun.

GORDON: That was very brave of her.

GRAYSON: I know. And it's not even like we're good friends.

GORDON: What did David do?

GRAYSON: He yelled at her to get away from me, and then he told me to start walking down the hall. I had to, or he would have shot both of us. He took me to the basement, to this room he had down there. He kept saying that he was a killer. I tried to tell him he wasn't, but he wouldn't listen. He asked me … he asked me if I understood, and I said yes. Maybe I shouldn't have, maybe that's why …

GORDON: It's ok, son, just take your time.

GRAYSON: I thought he was going to shoot me. I had this whole plan about how I was going to dive away from the gun, but he just put the gun up to his jaw … and … he didn't hesitate at all, he just pulled the trigger and … his face just … I should have stopped him, but … oh God.

GORDON: We can finish this later, if you like.

GRAYSON: No. I'm ok.

GORDON: What did you do after David pulled the trigger?

GRAYSON: Nothing. I couldn't … I couldn't even think. And then Bruce was there.

GORDON: Why was Bruce there?

GRAYSON: I pushed my panic button. Bruce makes me carry it all the time, ever since I was kidnapped when I was eight. But I guess you know about that.

INTERVIEW WITH BRUCE WAYNE. CONDUCTED BY DET. SARAH ESSEN.

ESSEN: So the panic button is also a homing device which you followed into the basement. Were you armed?

WAYNE: Do I look like the kind of guy who carries a gun around?

ESSEN: But you went after an armed suspect anyway?

WAYNE: You don't have any kids, do you?

ESSEN: And then what happened?

WAYNE: I got lost in the basement. It's a fucking maze down there. Isn't there some kind of law about making it easy to get around schools so that if one kid goes crazy and tries to kill the rest you can get to him? Where the hell are my campaign donations going if the stupid morons in office can't even protect our children?

ESSEN: Mr. Wayne, you need to calm down.

WAYNE: Don't you fucking tell me to calm down.

ESSEN: Mr. Wayne, sit down. Mr. Wayne … Thank you. You got lost in the basement. Then what?

WAYNE: I heard a shot. I ran forward and finally found Richard. The other boy had shot himself. He was lying on the floor with half his head blown off.

ESSEN: And then what did you do?

WAYNE: Richard wanted to go home.

ESSEN: Are you aware that it's against the law to leave the scene of a crime?

WAYNE: Against the law? What should be against the law is the fact that you people weren't even there yet by the time it was over.

ESSEN: Why did you go home?

WAYNE: Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. Richard wanted to go home. He had just seen his classmate blow his brains out. He was covered in David Stern's blood. Yeah, I took him home, and I'm sorry if you a have a problem with that, but maybe if you'd do your fucking job, this wouldn't have happened.

ESSEN: Mr. Wayne, calm down.

WAYNE: My parents were killed in the middle of downtown. Now my kid almost gets shot in the best school in the city. I don't know where the hell you people spend your time, but it's clearly not protecting the citizens who pay your salaries.

ESSEN: If you don't sit down right now, I'm going to lock you up until you sober up.

WAYNE: Fuck you.

END OF TRANSCRIPTION

* * *

Gordon flipped the folder shut and sat glaring at it. As much as he wanted to hunt down Bruce Wayne and punch him in the face, a part of him understood exactly how the man felt as he plunged down those basement stairs, because he would have felt exactly the same way himself—desperate, crazy, and terrified. _You don't have any kids, do you?_ Wayne had demanded of Sarah, and it was true. Ultimately she couldn't understand, which was why Gordon had almost lashed out at her himself, on the way to the dance after they'd gotten the call about the body.

_But drunk or not, scared or not, he still doesn't have the right to scream in her face._ The transcription was devoid of emotional punctuation, but he could imagine in the exclamation points. There was no note saying that she had actually thrown him in the drunk tank, but he hoped Sara had at least exerted some force.

And yet …

_My parents were killed in the middle of downtown. Now my kid almost gets shot_. Gordon chewed furiously on the corner of his mustache and knew that, sooner or later, he'd forgive the man, just as he'd forgiven him for burning down the family mansion in a drunken rage, and before that for wrapping three sports cars around telephone poles by his twentieth birthday, and before that, for wiping his eight year old bloody hands all over Gordon's jacket. Despite what he had thought on Friday night, Bruce Wayne hadn't forgotten anything.

And then there were these curious witness accounts about Richard Grayson, and the boy's own reluctant confession that he had run toward the shots because he had thought that he could help. Of course, that wasn't so very remarkable since Barbara had been doing exactly the same thing on the other side of the school (and for a moment he was overwhelmed with a bursting pride that mingled with the slightly panicked knowledge she would do it again next time). Still, it was odd how reluctantly Richard had told his story, eager to pass over his own courage in favor of the irrational guilt he insisted on assuming over David Stern's death. _And somebody sure goofed up there._ How could a kid whom everyone knew was grieving and in trouble get to that point without somebody besides another kid intervening?

But of course, there was the other, darker possibility that might explain Richard's skimping on the details of his halting narrative. Just exactly how well had the two boys known each other? Was there any connection between this and the prank at the dance? It had to be more than coincidence that Richard was implicated, one way or another, in both.

Or did it? Dammit, he _liked_ the kid. He'd gone to Wayne Manor Saturday morning, ready to skin off his rich kid hide and nail it to the wall, and instead found himself completely believing Richard's embarrassed explanation that he'd turned the game into a strip poker joke so that no one would think he rated Barbara's kisses too cheaply. And then he had sat there across the interview table, white as a ghost and saying it was his fault David Stern had pulled the trigger the last time.

Groaning, Gordon shoved the folder of transcripts away and looked around for something to distract his mind for a few minutes. Something which didn't involve analyzing the troubled minds of teenagers.

There was a stack of unopened mail on his desk, and on top balanced a plain brown box. Picking up the package, he examined it curiously. There was no return address, only his own name on a printed label and a blurred Metropolis postmark. Security would have already checked it for explosives when it came in, so he used a letter opener to slice through the thick tape, pushed aside a handful of packing peanuts, and found a long, narrow blue velvet bag. The rattling lumps that filled up about a third of the bag were heavy, but when he tried to peer inside it, the bag was too long and dark to allow him to see its contents.

Impatiently, Gordon grasped the end of the bag and turned it upside down. And then his jaw dropped as a gleaming cascade of gold and diamonds and the ancient treasure of the goddess Bastet clattered onto his desk.

* * *

"I should have stopped him," Rick said in a dull, dead voice. "It's my fault he's dead." He stared blankly before him into the darkness of the caverns.

Bruce shook his head. "You taking the blame for David's death makes as much sense as his taking the blame for his mother's."

"But I was there. I should have stopped him." Anger suddenly broke the through the boy's numbness, and he slammed his hand down onto the counter in front of him. "I predicted his next move and locked myself into a response, so I couldn't react fast enough to what he did. It was a rookie mistake."

"We all make rookie mistakes sometimes," Bruce responded evenly. "It still doesn't make his death your fault. David was the one who pulled the trigger."

"I don't even think he knew what he was doing," Rick said softly, the flare of animation dying back out of his face. "I should have stopped him. I _could_ have stopped him. All my training, and I let him die."

Bruce didn't respond again, although he would have done nearly anything to be able to ease his ward's pain. But this was guilt Richard would have to work through on his own terms, in his own time. There was something else, though, that had to be faced tonight, and although it filled him with dread, he walked briskly over to the case were Robin's armor hung and pulled out the cowl. "Suit up," he ordered, dropping it in Rick's lap.

The boy glanced up, startled. "Bruce, I really don't think … I should."

Bruce forced his face to remain set, his voice to be cold. "That was not a request." Ignoring Richard's startled look, he began to don his own armor, but felt relief when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy move to obey.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Alfred asked softly, coming over on the pretence of helping with the buckles. "He's exhausted."

"He's doubting himself. If he doesn't get back out there now and remember that he can trust his own instincts, this could paralyze him for a long time. I have to make sure he's recovering before …" Bruce trailed off, pulling on his gauntlets. He hadn't had time to discuss his latest plan with Alfred, but he hoped the older man wasn't going to put up an argument.

The butler guessed the end of the sentence anyway. "You're sending him out of Gotham?"

"He needs a break from this town."

"_Richard_ needs a break?"

Bruce ignored him. "By the way, don't let me forget to apologize to Detective Essen."

"I've already ordered the flowers," Alfred told him, before going to make certain that Robin was properly strapped in to his armor.

* * *

Back in Metropolis, his friends had called him Knuckles because he always carried a set of brass ones. He had a knack of digging them into the ribs of his victims and making them cringe forward against the edge of the knife he was holding at their throat. He aimed to make the same name for himself here in Gotham, where he had fled after things got a little too hot for him in Metropolis.

His first week hadn't been too bad. He'd found a place to hole up, gotten to know the territory, knew where he was going to work so that he wasn't trespassing on anybody's turf. The only thing he found a little weird was how every native hood and lowlife had a habit of looking over their shoulder when darkness started falling. Of course, everyone in this kind of work did that if they wanted to stay alive, but in Gotham, they did it all the freaking time, and they weren't looking at the shadows along the street, either. They were watching the sky.

It was because of the Batman. Knuckles couldn't figure it out. So what if there was a nut who dressed like a bat and beat guys up once in a while. It was no reason for dozens of tough hoods to slink around with their tails between their legs. Besides, he hadn't talked to anyone who had actually seen this so-called Batman. They all had a friend or a cousin who knew a guy who knew a guy, but that was it. Knuckles was starting up business tonight, and the last thing he was going to do was waste energy worrying about an ghost story.

He jerked his Metropolis Meteors ball cap lower over his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. It was definitely colder here, which took a little of the pleasure out of a night job. He could use something to fend off the cold before he settled down to serious work.

Looking around to see who else was out tonight, he spotted a slender man sidling up to a hunched old woman. He passed her a bill and she pressed something into his hands in return before he hurried away down the dimly lit street. Giving once more glance around to make sure there was nothing that looked like an undercover hanging around, Knuckles strode rapidly toward the old woman. "Yo, granny."

She looked up at him and he saw that her face was the color of ebony, shriveled like a walnut shell. "You want somting, boy?" she asked, but her island accent was so thick it took him a moment to understand her words.

_Can't even get a pusher who speaks English anymore_, he thought in disgust, before saying, "Depends on what you got."

She regarded him shrewdly for a moment and then cackled, flashing her four remaining yellow teeth. "You want what I got, boy. You need it bad." She reached inside her coat and pulled out a small dark object, letting it dangle from her fingers.

Knuckles reached for it, then recoiled in disgust. "What is that?"

What she offered him was not a packet of powder but a dead bat. It was shrunken and shriveled, its wingtips tied to its tiny feet, the fur pulling grotesquely away from its gaping jaws. When he looked closer, he could see a row of pins with colored heads protruding from its wizened body.

"Obeah can't touch him," she whispered. "He too strong. But maybe it protect you, eh? Keep him far away. You new in town," she finished briskly, "I give you good deal."

Knuckles stared at her. "You trying to tell me this is some kind of magic spell to keep the Batman away?"

"Smart boy," she crooned, leering.

Swearing, he knocked the bat out of her hand and stomped on it, feeling the delicate bones crunch beneath his boot. "You think I need protection?" He pulled his left hand out of his pocket and shoved its fistful of brass knuckles under her nose. "I got all I need right here. I ain't afraid of a lunatic in a mask."

She glared up at him, and for a moment he thought she would fly at him in her rage, but then she threw back her head and laughed, a shrill, loud shrieking that sent a chill down his spine despite his bravado. "You ain't in Metropolis no more, boy. You gonna wish you had dat." Still laughing, she shuffled away down the street.

"You're all crazy!" Knuckles shouted after her, before hurrying away in the opposite direction. _Crazy witch_.

No longer in the mood to hunt down a fix, he strode in the direction of the spot he'd picked out for himself, a recess with deep shadows near a corner that people out late often walked past on their way to find a cab. Stuffing his cap into his pocket and pulling on a ski mask, he cursed the cold and settled in to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. After about ten minutes of watching, a man in a long overcoat, hat pulled down almost to his woolen scarf, appeared. Knuckles waited until the guy was right in front of him, before he grabbed him by the coat collar and dragged him into the shadows, forced his face against the building.

"Pull out your wallet," he hissed, knife and knuckles in place.

The man was shaking in terror, and it took him forever to work his gloved hand into a pocket beneath the coat.

Knuckles started to hiss, "Hurry—"

He didn't understand why he was suddenly being dragged along the pavement, one arm nearly wrenched from its socket, his knife clattering down into the frozen gutter. He didn't understand until he was lifted and slammed against the wall and found himself staring into gleaming eyes that were definitely not human, heard a voice from hell rasping, "Welcome to Gotham."

* * *

"The next one's yours," Batman gruffly directed, the hapless Knuckles bound in the snow below them while his almost victim talked eagerly on his phone to the police.

Robin nodded wordlessly and they slipped off the roof, only two more shadows in the darkness of Gotham. As they made their way deeper into the city's seamy southern quarter, Batman kept a wary eye on his colleague, noticing his uncharacteristic slowness, the absence of his usual effortless grace. _He can't handle anything too challenging tonight, _he thought as they abandoned the street to avoid a group of drunks, again taking to the rooftops._ Just enough to remind him of who he is._

They were waiting out a noisy argument on the balcony below them when they caught sight of the spotter. In the past few months, several minor criminals who organized joint operations had taken to employing a bat spotter as part of their regular outfit. The job of this man was to find a high vantage point and keep watch exclusively for the Batman. Such sentries were considered extremely gutsy and were well compensated. What the gangs hadn't realized yet was that using a spotter actually made them more likely to be targeted by Batman, the presence of a guy craning his neck at the sky drawing attention to what otherwise might have been a successful operation.

When Batman saw the sentry, he hesitated, not knowing how big the job would be and not wanting to drag Robin into something he wasn't up to. But a moment later the boy lightly touched his arm and pointed, and Batman knew he couldn't pass up the situation now. It wouldn't do Robin any good to think he wasn't trusted.

They silently crept up behind the watcher, who was craning his neck downward, probably wondering how much longer he would have to wait up here, exposed. Batman flung one gauntleted hand over his mouth and the other around his chest, intending to pull him down silently, but as the sentry struggled, a tinny jingling broke the night. Shouting immediately erupted below, and too late, Batman realized that the man was not just a watcher but an alarm. Slamming his hand against the guard's neck and dropping the dazed body to the rooftop, he stepped to the edge and looked down into a into narrow loading bay between the buildings, a large truck parked in its center. There were only four suspects, but they were already ducking under cover, guns in hand, three clustered by the hood of the truck and one by the warehouse door.

They could try waiting them out, but Robin was already readjusting his vision for sonar imaging, so Batman did the same. Together they tossed handfuls of small explosives down, and with a series of pops the area flooded with choking black smoke. Batman took the three by the truck. One shot that went wild, a couple of heavy punches, a sharp arm twist followed by a scream and the crack of bone, and the gunmen lay subdued on the freezing and filthy concrete. As the smoke cleared, he saw the fourth man by the warehouse entrance lying face down and bound, while Robin examined the alarm system the thieves had bypassed, trying to trigger it.

Batman tensed and sprang forward as a fifth man, gun in hand, suddenly appeared in the door of the warehouse. But his shout of warning died on his lips as Robin almost leisurely sidestepped the gun muzzle, grasped the thief's arm, spun him around, and cracked his head against the doorframe. As the body crumpled to the ground, he reached back over to the keypad and typed in sequence of numbers. A soft series of beeps announced his success, and Batman relaxed slightly. The kid was going to be all right.

* * *

Rick put the last pieces of his armor away, and leaned wearily against the side of the cabinet. He felt incredibly exhausted, but relieved. It had been so many nights since he'd been Robin that a part of him had started to wonder whether he would have lost his edge when he did go back out. And after his failure with David, he'd been filled with kinds of doubts he hadn't experienced since he first started becoming Batman's apprentice. But back inside his mask, he had remembered who he was and what he needed to do. It was an overwhelming relief.

"We need to talk," Bruce announced.

"Okay," Rick agreed numbly, too tired to even feel curious.

"You're leaving town tomorrow."

Rick froze mid-yawn. "What?"

"You were shot at as Robin. You were suspected of being involved in the Bailey prank, and now one of your classmates comes after you with a gun. Gotham's too hot for you right now."

"It's just a coincidence those things happened close together!" Rick protested. "They don't have anything to do with each other."

"Maybe," Bruce admitted. "But it doesn't matter if they're actually related or not. People are paying too much attention to you both in and out of the mask. Your cover, or mine, won't survive too intensive scrutiny. You need to be out of reach for awhile."

"It's going to attract some attention if I suddenly leave," Rick argued.

"Not if we tell them I'm taking you out of the country to see a trauma specialist."

Rick frowned, his tired brain struggling to process this. "You're coming with me?"

"Not really. I'll simply drop out of sight while you're gone."

"Why can't I do the same? There's no reason for me to actually leave Gotham if no one knows I'm here."

"You're going."

"Why?" Rick demanded.

"Because we both need a break from Robin."

He stared at his guardian in shock. Bruce looked regretful, as if he had said more than he had meant to. "You don't want my help?" Rick asked slowly.

"At the moment, your involvement at Bailey is complicating an already complicated situation."

"That's not an answer."

"You need to get out of Gotham for awhile. You've become too involved at that school. You feel so guilty over what happened to David that you haven't even started trying to figure out whether his psychotic break is connected to anything else that's going on there."

Rick winced. It was true, but he persisted, "That's still not an answer."

Bruce's expression hardened. "Then the answer is no. Right now, I can't split my focus between a murderer and wondering whether you're going to make it through the next twenty-four hours without getting shot. I cannot afford to be distracted."

So that was it. Robin was getting in Batman's way. Rick discovered that he didn't have any arguments left and nothing to offer in his own defense. Wordlessly, he turned toward the lift.

"Richard. Rick, wait."

Rick didn't turn around, just pulled the metal grille shut behind him and ascended into the dark.

* * *

José Martinez crouched behind a stack of crates inside the large truck, struggling desperately not to cough on the choking smoke that wafted in through the open door. Outside, he could hear the terrified cries of his friends, and he knew that the Batman was there, that despite their emergency plan that told them what to do if the unthinkable ever happened, none of them would escape. His only hope was to stay absolutely quiet and pray that Batman's x-ray eyes wouldn't spot him through the sides of the truck.

The sounds of struggle outside had long since faded when José finally became aware of the approaching sirens. Everyone on the street knew that the cops inevitably followed in Batman's wake, and although José didn't want to be one of the moaning bodies on the ground outside, he didn't really want to end up in a jail cell either. Trembling, he stuck his head out of the opening, but the loading bay was empty except for his incapacitated fellow thieves.

Leaping out of the truck and ignoring the feeble call that followed him down the street, he ran as fast as his tattered sneakers allowed, skidding on icy patches on the sidewalk and finally collapsing beside a friendly dumpster. Gradually, his heart rate slowed and his breathing evened out. At last he reached inside his jacket and drew out the dead bat nestled in his shirt pocket. It hadn't seemed like much for the forty bucks he'd paid for it earlier that evening, but now he kissed its withered wings fervently and silently blessed the old witch who'd sold it to him.

Standing up, he was about to slip out of the alley and head for home when a soft footstep behind him made him whip around in alarm. His hand not holding the bat darted into a side pocket, fumbling for the blade that resided there. But the knife dropped from his suddenly numb fingers as he saw who—_what_—was advancing toward him.

Trembling violently, he held up the charm. "¡Déjame, en el nombre Diós!"

There was a low laugh that filled him with dread, and then the charm was torn from his grasp. "¿Y que tienes aqui?"

"Batman," José gasped, falling back against the dumpster and beginning to cry.

A massive fist closed around the tiny bat, and José heard its bones crunch. "Llora con fuerza, hombrecito," whispered the shadow. "Porque ni Diós, ni Batman puede salvarte."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Spanish translations: "Leave me alone, in the name of God!" "And what do you have here?" "Cry hard, little man. Because neither God nor Batman can save you."

Woot! I think I've updated more in two weeks than in an entire year! Wait … that's not something to be proud of …

I'll start on review responses tonight, but it will probably take me a couple of days to get to all of them. (That IS a good thing!) And if anyone reviewed both previous chapters but didn't get the extra, let me know.

As far as this chapter's reviews go, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on the philosophy problem posed at the beginning (and of course your comments on the chapter itself!).


	20. Addition to chapter 19

**A/N** As stated in the title, this is not an actual chapter. Rather, it is an addition to the previous one, a scene that should have been included (actually it should have opened the chapter), but I was rushing too much to finish and didn't realize what a bad idea it was to skip over it. Hopefully, it will help fill in at least a couple of the weird emotional holes in the last chapter.

I spent the last two weekends at weddings, the first my cousin's and the second my little brother's (he looked so grownup up there on the altar! *sniff sniff*). It was a lot of traveling, and a lot of visiting, and as much as I promised myself beforehand that I would find time to write, of course I didn't. However, I plan to have the next chapter up by the end of the week, and in the meantime, please enjoy this little snippet!

**New Opening Scene for Chapter 19**

"Dick?"

Slowly, Richard turned his head. "I couldn't stop him," he said, blank amazement in his voice. "I couldn't."

"Are you hurt?" Bruce asked quietly, stepping forward, putting a hand on his ward's shoulder, seeing with an unexpected surge of panic the blood that spattered his clothes.

Slowly, Richard shook his head. "I'm not hurt. Just Dav—" His voice broke and he took a deep breath and tried again. "David—" The sob escaped this time, a wrenching, violent noise that shook him like a physical blow.

Bruce held him tightly and let him cry, turning him away from the body. "It's ok," he soothed, although it wasn't, and it wouldn't be, and really never had been. "It's ok."

The sobs were too violent to last long, and after a minute, Richard's heaving shoulders stilled. "Can we go home?" he asked, his face muffled against Bruce's shoulder, hiding from what lay on the floor behind him. "I just want to go home."

"Let's go," Bruce agreed, shifting his arm around so that they could walk side by side, Bruce carefully keeping himself between Richard and the body, so that he wouldn't have to look. "Do you know how to get out of here?" he asked as they left the little room behind. "Because I think I'm lost." Alfred had guided him down here and … "Alfred!" he exclaimed out loud, suddenly realizing the butler had no idea whether they were alive or dead. "I dropped my phone …" He found it just around the next corner and saw that it was still connected. "Alfred?"

"Master Wayne! Did you find—"

"We're both fine," Bruce interrupted.

"Thank God," came the whisper on the other end of the line. And then, more briskly, "What's the situation?"

Bruce glanced down at Richard, who was staring blankly down the passageway and said softly, "David Stern shot himself."

"Did Master Richard …"

"He was there."

"Is he hurt?"

"I don't think so. We're coming home."

"What about the police?"

"You know, Alfred, I really don't care right now. We'll see you in a few minutes." Bruce snapped the phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. "Which way?"

Richard looked confused. "What?"

"To the parking lot."

The boy looked around and after a moment of hesitation decided, "This way."

It seemed to take forever to wend their way out of the basement, but it could only have been a couple of minutes. Outside, the winter sunshine seemed unnaturally bright, and as they emerged into the chilly air, a siren screamed around the corner.

_Forget the car,_ thought Bruce and asked, "Where'd you park?"

Richard seemed more alert out here in the sun, and he led the way through the rows of cars until they came to the gleaming bike. "I'm driving," Bruce said flatly, and Richard didn't argue, just handed over the keys and climbed on behind. They drove out the back way as more sirens screamed up in front of the school. _A little late_, Bruce thought in sudden fury, _but aren't they always?_

Alfred was waiting for them on the porch, looking worried, a look that only intensified after he got a good look at Richard. "Are you hurt?" he demanded anxiously.

"I'm fine," the boy muttered, clearly anything but.

Alfred scrutinized him carefully, but all he said was, "The police are going to want those clothes. You'd better come upstairs and change. You too, Master Wayne."

Bruce looked down and realized that he too had blood smeared across the front of his coat. Wordlessly, he pulled it off and handed it over, and then Alfred put a careful hand on Richard's shoulder and guided him toward the stairs. Bruce watched them go, and then he walked, then ran, losing his grip on the panic he had so desperately been controlling ever since he'd seen Richard covered in David Stern's blood.

Pushing through a door, he strode around the pool table to the liquor cabinet behind the bar. He flung open the door too hard so that one of the delicate glass panes shattered and grabbed a bottle of vodka.

He never did this, ever, but he twisted the top and flung both cap and seal to the floor, then reached for a glass. In his haste, he overshot the rim, and the clear alcohol splashed across his sleeve and down to the floor. Steadying his hand he tried again and succeeded in filling the shot glass, which he tossed off and immediately refilled.

_A man who seeks courage in any place but his own heart …_

He paused, the glass halfway to his mouth, remembering a hike up an icy mountainside, the half decayed hut they had passed, and the drunk who sat in front of a dead fire, nursing his skin of wine. He could still hear the contempt in Ducard's voice as he finished,

…_is not a man but a sniveling boy, and worse, because a boy may grow into a man, while he will shrink only into the mockery of one._

_His life may have been too hard for him to bear,_ Bruce had argued. _Should we have no pity for him?_

_His life only became too hard when he chose not to find the strength to bear it._

He stared blankly at the glass, as though he could see the icy landscape in its crystal curve. He hadn't remembered his former mentor so clearly in a very long time, and the unexpected memory gave him a flash of disconnection so that he saw himself as Henri Ducard would have seen him in that moment.

_What is happening to me?_

And in that moment it became easy to push away the horror of David Stern's death and all the accompanying horrors of the past, to slip into old habits of discipline, to look at the situation critically and think about what he had to do next.

Rapidly, he listed the most pressing problems: there was Robin, who had been shot; there was Richard, who had not been shot but still hurt so that he would need a space in which to heal; there was Bruce Wayne, who had displayed uncharacteristically organized action; there were the police who any minute would be knocking on the door, demanding the witnesses of David Stern's death.

He would plan for all of it, but the matter of the police was most urgent, and he worked quickly, manipulating the scene for that slight, invaluable touch of the theatrical so that when Detective Sarah Essen opened the door she could smell the rum from across the room, and draw her own conclusions about the man slumping behind the bar, who invited her to have a drink.


	21. March: Progression

**A/N** I don't even have a bad excuse, much less a good one.

**Disclaimer** What yo' mama needs for yo' face. (Isn't that a great insult? I just thought it up.)

**Chapter 20**

Niko raised his arm, ready to hurl the last paper to its destined porch, and paused. He realized he had forgotten to scan the front page, to be ready with the headlines at breakfast for his father. Because of the early hour at which they were both up—Niko coming home from his paper route and his father ready to go to work, they often were the only two at the table, and Niko enjoyed the quiet minutes of man to man conversation without the intrusive comments of Ariadne or his mother.

Coaxing the rubber band off the roll of newssheet, he flattened the crinkling paper and squinted at the print in the amber glow of a streetlight. There were two major headlines decorating the page, but Niko skipped over them both, his eye drawn to the picture centered on the lower half of the sheet. It was a guy who looked like he was about Niko's age, dressed in a v-necked shirt with a white number seven on the sleeve. One hand held a long, skinny mallet, while the other rested on the neck of the horse that stood behind him. He obviously belonged to a world as far removed Niko's shabby tenement as China was from Gotham, and he was equally obviously no one Niko would know. Except that Niko did.

Sure, the hair was lighter and the clothes were strange, but he recognized the crazy grin and the pale blue eyes that were startling even in the grainy newspaper photo. Feeling confused and not entirely sure he was awake, he raised his eyes to the headline and read, "Wayne ward target in school shooting." _Wayne?_ he thought in disbelief. _Like Wayne Tower and the Wayne train?_ His eyes dropped back to the picture, and this time he read the caption under it, "Richard Grayson, 16." _Grayson?_ he wondered. _He never mentioned his last name. Guess I never asked. But it couldn't be him. Could it?_ His initial recognition was now assailed by doubts. _They say everyone's got a perfect double walking around somewhere._ He suddenly wished he could show the picture to Ariadne, but of course that was impossible. Shoving the rubber band back on the paper, he tossed it onto the porch and pedaled furiously back toward his own section of town, where people didn't spend money on newspaper subscriptions, maybe because they didn't have porches for them to be thrown on.

Ariadne was sitting on the couch when he got home, dressed for school with her coat and other wraps beside her.

"Why are you up so early?" he asked, glancing around to see if anyone else was up, but the rest of the room was empty.

"Too cold to sleep," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," Niko muttered. The landlord turned the heat down at night, and Ariadne's closet bedroom was the iciest spot in the cold apartment. His eye fell on the pile of wraps beside her. "Hey, is that the scarf Rick gave you for your birthday?"

"Yeah." She picked it up and rubbed it against her cheek. "I always wear it. It's nice."

"Can I see it?"

She held it out and he turned on a lamp to examine the scarf in its light. The texture was incredibly soft between his fingers, but the warmth it immediately trapped was astonishing. And it was pretty, too, the soft brown color almost glowing in the light. He looked for a tag or a brand name, but all he could find was a slightly rough spot, where it looked like some stitches may have been pulled out.

"Do you think it's expensive?" he asked finally.

"Yes. But it would have been pretty crummy of him not buy me a nice present since he can afford it."

Niko stared at her. "How do you know that?"

She shrugged. "He uses expensive soap."

"How do you know what expensive soap smells like?" Niko demanded.

"I just do."

"If you knew he was rich, why didn't you ever say anything?"

"It didn't seem important to tell you, and you didn't ask," she answered sweetly, and Niko pulled at his curly hair in frustration.

"You didn't think it was important to tell me that one of my friends is so rich he could buy our whole block? If he doesn't own it already, that is. He was lying to us!"

"Did you ever actually ask him if he was rich?"

"Well … no," Niko grudgingly admitted.

"Did you ask him where he lived or what his dad's job was?"

"No."

"Do you know all that stuff about all the guys you play soccer with?"

"No."

"So there." Ari cross her arms and settled back against the cushions, looking smug.

"But that's different," he argued.

"It is not."

"Yes, it is! Those guys keep secrets because it's safer that way, not because … because …"

"Because what?" she asked challengingly.

"So they can go slumming!" he burst out. "You think he doesn't go home and laugh about it with his rich friends?"

"No," she replied.

"Well what other reason would Bruce Wayne's ward have for—"

"Bruce Wayne?" she demanded, jerking upright.

Glad he'd finally gotten a rise out of her, Niko sneered, "Yeah, Bruce Wayne. As in, the richest man in Gotham."

She sat silently for a moment and then asked slowly, "Wasn't he the one that sent the mayor that cake when he got reelected?"

"With the dancing girls in it," Niko affirmed.

"How do you know? About Rick, I mean, not the cake."

"His picture was in the paper. There was a shooting at a fancy private school, and they said he was the target."

"He was shot?" she screeched.

"They said he was fine."

Ariadne blew out a loud breath of relief. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Would've served him right," Niko muttered vindictively.

"Why does being rich mean he doesn't really want to be your friend?" Ari demanded, sounding exasperated.

Even though she couldn't see him, Niko vented his feelings in a glare. Ari was smart about some things, but other times she just didn't get it. "Duh!" he said furiously and stormed off to his room.

* * *

Gordon glared at his unoffending pencil holder, wondering whether there was any way today could be as bad as yesterday had been It wasn't starting out well. He'd gotten the report on the mysterious jewels—it was almost the entire list of items stolen by the casino cat burglar. The only thing missing was a hair ornament from the museum that was, of course it was, one of the prize pieces of the collection, which meant an international incident was still pending. But what galled him most was the sheer cheek of the gesture. Certainly, he was relieved to be able to hand the jewels back to their rightful owners, but this woman had made monkeys out of his entire police force, to say nothing of Batman. And for what? For kicks.

To make matters worse, his forensics team had been unable to recover any evidence from the package or its contents—it had been mailed in Metropolis several days ago, and that was all anybody knew.

"Come in," he snapped in response to a knock on his office door. He took one look at O'Hara's grim face and knew that the possibilities of today being a better day had just gotten slimmer. "Don't tell me. Some psycho dressed like the Queen of Sheba has kidnapped the mayor, blown up City Hall, and demanded the entirety of Wayne Enterprises as ransom."

O'Hara didn't smile. "A dead guy," he said briefly, dumping a handful of photos on the desk. "Found near the docks with his neck broken. He's got a short and tame rap sheet—petty theft, a little pushing."

Gordon spread out the photos of the corpse, still not sure why O'Hara looked so grim. Then he saw the extreme angle of the man's neck. "How does the coroner think he broke his neck?"

"By hand." O'Hara gestured expressively.

"Have to be a pretty strong guy. Do you know why he was killed?"

"No. But yesterday we found her." O'Hara handed over a second set of photos. They showed a young woman in a miniskirt and heavy coat, her neck bent at the same angle.

Gordon groaned. "You think we have another serial?"

"Maybe. I thought you'd want to know."

_No,_ Gordon thought. _No, not really_. "Yeah," he said out loud. "I wanted to know."

* * *

It was early afternoon as Bruce sat down at the kitchen counter with a protein shake. After preparing for Richard's trip and delivering his ward to the airport early that morning, he had finally made it to bed and had only just gotten up. The kitchen was too quiet. Even though he knew the kid was over a thousand miles away, he caught himself listening for the slam of a door, the sound of feet pounding up or down the stairs. Sighing, he turned on the TV, just to have something fill the silence. GNN flashed their red "Breaking News" banner as an elegantly suited black man stood on the steps of the art museum. A reporter declared, "We're standing here with Egyptian Consul Abasi Mubarak, who is about to deliver a special message concerning the theft of several Egyptian national treasures from the Gotham Museum of Art several weeks ago." She broke off as the consul began to speak in accented but clear English.

"Several weeks ago, some of the most valued treasures of my country were stolen from this museum. These artifacts are not only very valuable but also bear great cultural significance for Egypt. Most of these artifacts have now been anonymously returned to the Gotham City police. These pieces are undamaged, and for this, I and the people of Egypt thank whoever returned them to us. But one piece from the collection is still missing, one of the ceremonial accessories of the ancient high priestess of Bastet. If this artifact is restored undamaged to the people of Egypt, any investigation into the theft will be halted. It is my belief, and that of the ambassador, that the return of our national treasures signifies remorse on the part of the individual who took them, and we wish to emphasize that if the artifact is returned, we will press no charges. Thank you."

The reporter reappeared. "The artifact Consul Mubarak refers to is an emerald studded hair ornament estimated to be three thousand years old. The Gotham Museum of Art is offering a substantial reward for information leading its return. If you know anything about the whereabouts of this artifact, please call the number on your screen."

The hotline number appeared, beneath a photograph of the missing jewelry. Bruce stared at the screen, a biting feeling of dismay clenching itself around his chest. Shoving back from the kitchen counter, he hurried to his study and opened the safe. It was in a velvet lined box tucked into the back corner, safe from any eyes but his own. He opened the box and stared at the contents, willing them to be other than what they were, but there was no doubt: the jeweled headpiece Selina Kyle had entrusted to him was the same one that was missing from GMA.

Selina Kyle was Catwoman.

* * *

_Just do it already_, Niko argued with himself, staring at the black telephone booth mounted on the wall across from the bar. _It's just a stupid phone call_. Hopping off his stool with an air of determination, he wove across the crowded floor of the club and grabbed the cracked receiver. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced the wrinkled scrap of paper Rick had given him the night of Ari's birthday party. _"In case you need to call and schedule a game or something,"_ he'd said. Just thinking of the casual way he'd dropped the remark made Niko angry all over again, but he jammed three quarters down the slot and punched in the number anyway.

It rang three times, and he thought it would probably go to voice mail, as it had done when Ari had tried calling, but the fourth ring was interrupted by a click, and then a strangely accented voice declared, "Wayne Manor, how may I help you?"

Up to this moment, one part of Niko's mind had still clung to the possibility that there might have been a mistake, that the picture in the paper wasn't of the guy he knew after all. But that was definitely out now. He stared blankly at the side of the booth, where someone had scribbled, _Like it hott??? Tani 678-1234._

"Hello?" the voice asked politely.

"Uh, hey," he blurted, almost hanging up in dismay over how flat and rough his own voice sounded in comparison. But he plunged ahead. "Is Rick there?"

"I'm afraid Master Richard is out of town just now. May I take a message?"

_Master Richard? Wait until Ari hears about this_. "Uh … I was just calling to see if he was ok. I read about the school shooting in the paper." Never mind that that had been over a week ago.

"Are you a friend of his?" the voice asked politely.

"I … not really, man. We just play soccer." Niko paused, but when the voice on the other end didn't say anything, he burst out, "He didn't even tell me his last name or nothin'. I just … Forget it." He slammed down the receiver and stood glaring at it. _Stupid_, he accused himself. _Yeah, you were really smooth just now_.

He turned away from the phone, determined to seek consolation elsewhere in the club to block out this uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment, when the receiver rang. Niko jerked back around, staring at it, and it rang again. And again.

"You gonna answer that or what?" a surly waitress demanded on her way past with a tray full of glasses.

He snatched up the receiver. "Yeah?"

It was the same accented voice. "I'm terribly sorry, our connection seems to have been interrupted before I could give you the information you wanted. Richard will be away from Gotham for some time. He has gone to see a trauma specialist."

"But the paper said he wasn't hurt!" Niko protested, feeling alarmed.

"He wasn't shot. But he did see one of his classmates kill himself, and, well, it distressed him a good deal. I'm afraid the facility he's visiting doesn't allow cell phones, but if you'll leave your name, I'll be happy to tell him you called."

"Niko," Niko said automatically. "And you can tell him … tell him we can use him when he gets back. If he wants to play."

"I'll tell him. Thank you for calling, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Niko answered bemusedly, hanging up for the second time. That was definitely the first time in his life anyone had called him sir.

_A trauma specialist_, he repeated to himself, frowning over the unfamiliar phrase. As far as he could figure out, that meant a head doctor. Niko prided himself on having seen some rough stuff, but he'd never seen a guy blow his own brains out. He guessed that could maybe mess up your head pretty bad, so much that you'd need a doctor for it, maybe.

_At least Ari should be happy_, he thought, trying to hold on to some of his earlier irritation. After her own call had gone to voicemail, she'd been pestering him constantly to phone.

Skatz's club had some of the hottest dancing in town, which was why he snuck in as often as he could, hoping to pick up new moves, but tonight he had lost his interest in the crowded floor, even though it was still early. Pulling his scarf out of his pocket and zipping up his coat, he slipped toward the back door, supposing he could just as well go home and tell his sister about the phone call as not.

There was a knot of men huddled by the back door in the alley, and as he left the club, one of them jerked a little, as though startled, and stuffed a white paper into his pocket. As soon as they got a good look at him though, they ignored him and went back to their hushed conversation. Niko ignored them in return—whatever they were doing, it was none of his business.

It was a cold walk home, and by the time he was halfway there, he had lost the feeling in his fingertips and the end of his nose. A trash barrel glowed a few feet back in an alleyway, and he edged cautiously toward the ring of men that surrounded it. They tensed and looked at him sharply as he approached, but almost immediately relaxed. No one seemed to mind as he rubbed his frozen fingers together over the heat.

Usually in a group like this, there was a trickle of chatter—friendly or senseless or threatening—the important thing was that the words were part of sharing the fire. But these men stood silent and occasionally cast glances up at the invisible sky.

Niko had only stood there for about a minute when another man entered the alley and approached the fire. Again there was the tension that evaporated as the men shuffled to make room for the newcomer without a word of complaint, even though it was growing crowded around the barrel.

"Thanks," the new man muttered, holding out his hands. "No good trying to keep warm alone."

This cryptic comment sent a stir of uneasiness through the group, and Niko frowned for a moment, trying to puzzle it out, until it dawned on him. The bodies. Rumors had been flying about a string of supposed murders, but he hadn't really taken them seriously. The dead people were all supposed to be criminals—street scum who more or less deserved what they got, and so he hadn't worried too much about it. But these men were worried—enough so that they made room for strangers around their small fire to make the group bigger.

Suddenly, he longed to be at home. Shoving his tingling fingers deep in his pockets, he walked away without speaking, down the dark and icy streets, hurrying until he was climbing the stairs to his own landing. He shoved his key into the lock and hustled inside, trying not to let any of the meager heat escape. But he wasn't too busy to notice his parents sitting at the table, or the uneasy way they stiffened as he came in. He caught a flash of white paper as his father shoved it under a placemat.

"Hi," he greeted them casually, trying not to look curious. Or worried. He really wished they'd just admit he was almost an adult and _tell_ him when something was wrong. He hoped his father hadn't lost his job. Kostos worked road construction in the summer and dropped road salt in winter. As bad as Gotham's roads and winters were, you'd think that a guy would never be out of work, but last week Niko had eavesdropped on a nervous conversation about city budget cuts.

His parents exchanged a meaningful look. "You're home early on Friday night," his mother said, rising from the table and busying herself in the kitchen. "You're not sick, are you?"

"Nah. I just didn't feel like hanging out. Is Ari in her room?"

"No. Demetrios is taking her to a friend's house. She forgot something for her homework, so she has to borrow a book." Athena cast a worried look at the clock. "They should be back by now, don't you think, Kostos?"

Niko's father shook his head. "Not yet." He pulled a library book toward himself and patted his various pockets, looking for his reading glasses. Grumbling under his breath, he stood up and disappeared into the bedroom.

Niko cast a swift look into the kitchen to make sure his mother was still peeling potatoes over the sink, and then he pulled the sheet of paper out from under the placemat and stared at the roughly drawn cartoon. A caricature of the police Commissioner was dressed in a fancy suit, smoking a cigar while playing cards with an equally exaggerated depiction of the mayor. Outside the window, a woman dressed in rags was being stabbed by a man in a mask. The caption read, _They only protect who they're paid to protect._

Niko heard the telltale creak of the floorboards as his father began to leave the bedroom, so he shoved the paper back under the placemat and darted into his room to think. He remembered he'd seen another of those flyers in the hand of a man outside the club, although he hadn't known then what it was. But why had his father been so intent on hiding it? People always grumbled about the cops, about how the police only came to their part of the city to play with the vices they were supposed to be stamping out.

It wasn't like someone didn't get killed in Gotham every day of the week, but Niko guessed that people were really taking the latest rumors seriously, and they were blaming the cops for it. Maybe the cops should be blamed. He didn't know.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Kostos stuck his head in. "Come on. We're going to the train station to pick up your brother and sister."

"What, they suddenly can't walk by themselves? It's just two blocks!" he protested, but Kostos was already gone.

Grumbling, Niko pulled his coat back on and followed his father out the door.

* * *

A body a day.

That was what the photos tucked into Gordon's pocket declared. A body a day for ten days. Their necks were always broken. Other than that, there was little to tie the murders together—the victims were men and women, young old, crooks and decent people just trying to scrape by. They had all lived and died in the poorest sections of Gotham, which was why the news of the connection between the killings hadn't leaked to the press yet. As far as the upper classes were concerned, the bodies stuffed in dumpsters were business as usual. But the rest of the city knew—the people who didn't depend on channel 5 to bring them their local news. Cops on the beat reported that the streets were unusually tense, that local toughs were jumping at shadows. They also reported that their job was getting steadily harder, that they were constantly harassed. The investigation into the killings had become next to impossible. If there were witnesses, they weren't talking. The people were blaming the police for what was happening, and given his miserable track record for the last couple of month, Gordon didn't know that he blamed them.

"Are you sure he'll come?" Sarah demanded. They were standing together on the roof of the precinct by the lit bat signal.

"No." In fact, if forced to wager on it, he would pick the opposite answer. Over the years, he had used the signal less and less. It was dangerous, and the city had become so aware of Batman that it didn't need the reminder. But then, the Bat usually volunteered an appearance when something this bizarre was happening. Now for almost two weeks, the masked crusader had been both absent and silent.

"What if he doesn't show?"

Gordon chewed furiously on the corner of his mustache and glared at his detective and girlfriend, wishing he knew exactly which of them it was who was pushing the envelope tonight. Sarah Essen didn't like things she couldn't see, and she had always held the opinion that Gordon risked himself personally and professionally by his reliance on the mysterious Batman. But since the Riddler had emerged, her objections had become increasingly more vocal and now, with this new spate of killings, he got the feeling she was on the verge of some sort of ultimatum.

"It means he's busy," he said finally.

"Doing what?"

"I trust him Sarah. We've fought a lot of battles together. I may not know who he is, but I know him."

She didn't quite snort, but he could read the incredulity in her expression.

"If you want the truth, your being up here increases the chances of his not showing."

She sighed and tried to speak more softly. "Jim, the majority of the force is solidly behind you. We trust your leadership. But a lot of us aren't so sure about him. Sure, he's done us a lot of favors in the past, but he's a volatile ally. You feel that, or you wouldn't have accused him of murder after Harvey Dent's death."

Gordon remembered those few terrible weeks, all those years ago, when the Bat had become a fugitive. The Joker, for unfathomable reasons of his own, had eventually claimed credit for the murders, and the manhunt for the Bat had been called off, but dark suspicions about Batman's innocence remained in the minds of some who could remember that far back. The real truth, that the Bat had taken responsibility in order to preserve Harvey Dent's reputation, had never been revealed and never could be.

"That was a long time ago," was the best answer he could come up with. "A lot of water's gone under the bridge since then."

Sarah's sigh told him what she thought of his response, but she kept quiet.

They waited for an hour, but Batman didn't come.

* * *

"The mail, sir."

Bruce caught an odd tone in Alfred's voice, but the butler remained expressionless as he handed over the envelopes and retreated.

The answer, however, was apparent in the top envelope, which bore the return address of Selina Kyle. Tensing, Bruce ripped it open and scanned the brief note.

_Bruce- I'm back. Dinner on Tuesday at 7. –Selina_

He stared at the unrevealing message in frustration, then tossed it down onto the desk. Not that he had been expecting it to say _P.S. Hope you don't mind I'm a jewel thief_, but he had been hoping for some kind of clue to whatever the hell game she was playing. By now, she had to know that he knew, since the mysterious return of the final artifact to the museum had been announced on the news.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair and tried to think. it became increasingly easy to believe that Luthor's personal assistant and the lithe thief of the rooftops were the same person. They were the same size, and they moved with the same easy grace. Both had the same sharp-edged sense of humor and the same flexible idea of morality. In fact, as he began to recall their past conversations, the wonder became not that Selina was Catwoman but that he hadn't realized it a long time ago.

Wincing, he remembered the first time they had met, when she had commented on the poor security at the art museum. At the time, he had written it off as idle conversation, but now her remarks were loaded with obvious meaning.

Once he had absorbed the shock of the revelation, he was left with three urgent questions. First, how much did Catwoman guess or know about Batman's other identity? Second, why did Selina Kyle want Bruce Wayne to know the truth? And third, what was he going to do about it?

During the past week, he had endlessly speculated over the answers to the first two questions, and had come up with nothing productive. Now he forced himself to consider the last question. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he wanted to accept her dinner invitation, even though it meant faking a return to Gotham. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about their last encounter, and he had dreamt about it more nights than not. Sometimes the dreams ended well, and sometimes they didn't.

He hadn't been seriously involved with a woman since Rachel Dawes, and that relationship had been painful enough to shelter him from every subsequent temptation to romance. He didn't foster any illusions about what had almost happened with Selina in the hotel Jacuzzi—it had very little to do with affection and everything to do with an appetite he'd controlled for so long that the suppression had become nearly automatic. But the fact that she had so easily crumbled years of discipline was only part of her appeal.

He wasn't so idiotic as to think himself in love, but he couldn't deny that he was fascinated.

Selina Kyle was dangerous. Seeing her again was playing with fire. He should blow off the invitation.

On the other hand, he needed to find out how much she knew and what she was going to do about it. The easiest way to get those answers was to talk to her.

And why was he expending so much energy on the problem when there was yet another psycho running loose in the streets, snapping necks? He'd seen Gordon's signal the night before but had been in pursuit of a lead he had hoped would give him some clue to their latest killer. The trail had petered out, as empty as all the others.

Bruce pulled out a piece of stationery and accepted the invitation to dinner.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Aren't we glad I didn't give up and delete this entire chapter like I almost did?

Cows say moo. Just thought I'd share that.


	22. March: Nocturne

**A/N** I'm not sure whether this chapter rocks or smacks of the suckish. But either way:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

**Disclaimer** The author cannot be held responsible on her birthday.

**Chapter 21**

_Every morn and every night,_

_Some are born to sweet delight._

_Some are born to sweet delight,_

_Some are born to endless night._

_-William Blake_

Niko pulled his hat down over his ears and headed for the front door.

"Where are you going?" Kostos asked.

"Out with some friends," Niko replied automatically, hiding his surprise. He hadn't even realized his father was home, and had been counting on slipping out without being noticed. Now his father was going to grill him, and Niko didn't have a good story thought up.

But instead of asking another question, Kostos only said, "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Niko demanded, outraged that he was being confined before he'd even had a chance to do anything suspicious.

"We all stay in tonight," Kostos said flatly. "Go do your homework. Your last report card wasn't so good."

"I already did it," he protested, mentally adding, _mostly_.

"Then check it over. You don't go out tonight."

Niko recognized the dogged expression on his father's face too well to waste more time arguing. Kostos had made up his mind, and he wasn't going to explain himself, either. Muttering, Niko stalked back to the bedroom where Demetrios was once again repairing his tattered soccer ball. Yanking back the covers on his bed, he arranged his pillow and some dirty laundry between the sheets and threw the blankets on top. "If anyone asks, I'm napping," he said, before pulling up the window.

"Ah man!" Demetrios protested. "If you get caught, I'm dead too."

"Chill, I'll be back in half an hour. But if I stand the guys up, they'll be mad, you know?" Silently shutting the window behind him, he tiptoed down the fire escape and jumped into the street.

Sun and Carlos were waiting for him on the appointed corner. "You're late," Sun told him.

"My dad caught me on the way out and told me I had to stay in and do homework. I gotta get back before he finds out I'm gone. Sorry I can't go to the club with you."

"Sucks," Carlos sympathized.

"Hey," Sun exclaimed, "check out those guys over there."

Niko and Carlos looked. A group of men, heads lowered and shoulders hunched as though they didn't want to be seen, were hurrying along the street. Niko wondered why he was supposed to be checking them out, and then he spotted another furtive group headed in the same direction. And then another, and another.

"Where are all these people going?" he wondered, keeping his voice low. When people skulked around Gotham, you didn't want them to think you were prying into their business.

Sun shrugged. "I dunno. Let's go find out."

"Come on, man, it's cold out!" Carlos protested. "Let's just go to the club."

"Come on, man," Sun mimicked. "Where's your sense of adventure? How about you, Niko?"

"Ten minutes," Niko agreed. "Then I gotta split."

Carlos grumbling behind them, they sauntered along in the same direction everyone else was going. The farther they walked, the thicker the crowd grew, until a particularly thick knot of people forced them apart. Niko had to jog to keep from being knocked off his feet, swept along in the rush until he rounded a corner and was forced to a stop by a solid wall of people.

The crowd was gathered in a lot that had been slated for new construction. But the budget had been canceled, the fence had fallen down, and now it was only a larger than average open space in the Gotham ghettos. Niko was pretty sure he'd played soccer here. Now the lot was packed with people, except for the front, where a crude platform of crates had been erected. It was lit by two burn barrels, flames dancing over their tops. Clearly, it was some kind of rally.

Uninterested and worried that his father might that very minute be knocking on his bedroom door, Niko tried to push his way back out of the crowd, but the people were packed so tightly behind him that he only moved two feet before dirty glares and sharp elbows stopped his pushing.

"What's going on?" he asked the person standing next to him, but the man refused to even look at him, and burrowed into his scarf like a turtle.

Niko was forced to stand there as the eerily quiet crowd continued to swell behind him, packing the lot tighter and tighter until he felt like he could barely breathe. Finally, when he was about to try clearing a path by claiming the need to vomit, something happened up front. A stirring of the crowd drew his attention, and then a door in one of the surrounding building swung open.

Niko's jaw dropped as he stared at the man who walked forward, the crowd melting away before him until he reached the makeshift platform. He was easily seven feet tall, and extremely broad shouldered. Shaggy dark hair fell almost to his shoulders, and he was dressed in army fatigues. Despite his size, he moved lightly and bounded up onto the crates without hesitation.

"People of Gotham!" he shouted.

The crowd had already been unusually quiet, but now the silence became absolute. Niko could hear a car blowing its horn several blocks away.

"You have come here tonight because you are afraid," the spokesman continued, his Spanish accent lending emphasis to his voice. "Many of you do not know exactly why you are afraid, but I stand here to tell you that you have good reason! Over the past two weeks, thirteen people have been killed by the same murderer. They were ordinary people like yourselves, and they all lived in your neighborhoods."

A murmur ran through the crowd now, and Niko thought that it did sound afraid.

"And what have the police done about this?" the giant on the podium demanded. "Nothing! Have they alerted the media about this serial killer so that you could be warned?"

"No!" several people in the crowd shouted.

"Have they increased patrols in your neighborhood?"

"No!" came the response, louder this time.

"Have they done anything at all to keep you safe?"

"No!" they bellowed. The cloud of their combined fear and anger rolled over them like a physical force, and they spoke with one voice.

"If you drove better cars and worked better jobs, would they treat you this way?"

"No!"

"If you lived in another part of town, would they treat you this way?"

"No!"

"Will you allow them to ignore you any longer?"

"No!"

"Will you allow your children to be murdered while the police sit by and do nothing?"

"No!"

"Will you let this injustice continue for one more night?"

"No!" they cried, and the ground beneath them trembled with the echoes.

* * *

Bruce stuffed his ski cap into his jacket pocket and tried to smooth down his hair, peering into the shiny chrome surrounding the elevator button. Riding Rick's motorcycle had been a last minute impulse that he now regretted, since his fingers and ears still burned despite the wool hat under his helmet and his thick gloves. But the bike had looked lonely, gleaming untouched in the garage, and he hadn't wanted to be alone with himself in the quiet of a car. Too much time to think about what he was doing.

Selina didn't live in the penthouse of her building, but then, there was nothing economical about the twenty-ninth floor, either, he reflected wryly, looking at the plush hallway carpet and the original artwork decorating the walls. Her taste in the expensive was consistent.

Selina answered his knock, dressed casually in jeans and a blouse, her long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Her clothes didn't matter—she was still stunning. Whenever he was away from her, he thought his imagination exaggerated her beauty, and when he saw her again, he always realized that he hadn't remembered enough of it.

She held his gaze, and he thought he saw a flicker of shared desire, but then she was stepping back and waving him inside. "Good timing, the caterer just left."

"I thought this was a home-cooked meal," he protested, pulling off his coat and mentally slapping himself upside the head. _Focus, Bruce._

"You didn't actually think I was going to _cook_ for you?"

"A guy can dream."

"Very, very big dreams."

"Come on, I bet you're great in the kitchen."

"And here I thought you respected me for my mind."

"I respect that too."

"Right," she drawled, and led the way to the table.

* * *

"Commissioner Gordon, sir, you've got to wake up."

Gordon reluctantly pried open his eyes and squinted up at O'Hara. "What time is it?"

"It's only nine o'clock, sir, but you've got to see this."

Gordon yawned widely and sat up on his office couch. "Good, I bet Jane's still got my dinner in the oven. You know how you lie down for fifteen minutes, and suddenly it's two hours later—"

"Commissioner!"

O'Hara's urgency finally penetrated Gordon's fuzzy consciousness. "What is it? More bodies?"

"Not exactly, sir. That is, not dead ones." O'Hara hurried to the window and pulled up the blinds.

Gordon crossed over to look out, and the last of his sleepiness evaporated as he stared down at the streets packed with people. "What's going on? How did they get here?"

"They started pouring in about twenty minutes ago. We didn't even realize what was happening, until it was too late to stop them. There's thousands of them, and they're blocking the traffic for a two block radius."

"What do they want?"

"They want to talk to you, Commissioner, about the murders. They say the police aren't doing anything to protect them, and they want to know why not."

Gordon shook his head in disbelief. "How did we not know about this? They must have been organizing, planning."

O'Hara looked miserable. "We knew people in the dock neighborhoods were unhappy, but we had no idea this was in the works. I'm sorry, sir."

"Any violence?"

"Not yet."

"Maybe they really do just want to talk. I'll have to go out there."

"I'm not sure that's wise."

Gordon shook his head. "Gotham is my city, and those are Gotham's people. I'm going to talk to them. They're right that we haven't been doing enough to protect them. Maybe we should have told the media."

"But we had nothing, not even a profile!" O'Hara protested. "It would have just caused panic."

"Panic," Gordon muttered. "I really hate that word."

* * *

"Sit there," Selina ordered, pointing to the sofa. "I have a present for you." She pulled a white cardboard box out of the closet and handed it to him.

"You shouldn't have."

"I can't help being excessively generous."

"A trait shared by all of Lex's employees, I'm sure."

"Of course."

He opened the box and found a worn leather jacket with a certificate of authenticity pinned to the front. Bruce grinned. "No way. MacGyver's jacket?"

"I thought at least one of us should achieve our heart's desire," she told him, just barely letting the sarcasm seep through her saccharine tone.

"You shouldn't have," he repeated.

"Don't worry, Bruce, it's all legal. I didn't steal it," she told him, a small smile playing around her mouth.

She'd acknowledged the elephant in the room. They both knew what he knew.

"Why," he began, watching her carefully.

"Do I do it?" she finished the question, her smile widening. "Because I can."

"Actually, I was going to ask why you told me."

"Why didn't you turn me in?" she countered.

His eyes tried to tear apart her face, searching for any hint of the truth, to find out what she knew. But she only matched him stare for stare, giving away nothing.

"You gave it all back," Bruce said finally. "But why me?"

She unexpectedly dropped her gaze and rose from the sofa, walked over to look out the window at the glittering cityscape. When she spoke, her voice was so low, he had to strain to hear. "Don't you ever wish you could take off the mask and let somebody see who you really are?"

Bruce tensed. Her question felt like a trap. He didn't trust the pain darkening her voice.

But he was affected by it all the same. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but the best he could do was mix honesty with his caution. "Not usually. It's a dangerous thing to do, isn't it? You take off the mask, people could get hurt."

"People get hurt anyway," she answered, her voice stifled and despairing.

And he forgot about lust in a wave of pity for her, because he thought he understood. In that moment, he wanted only to help her bear the pain a little. Stepping over to the window, he reached out to touch her arm. "Selina, I—"

"Don't!" she gasped, spinning away from him. "Don't call me that. It's not …" She caught herself and drew a deep breath. "It's all part of the mask, isn't it? It must be so much worse for you. Don't you ever wish you could stop being Bruce Wayne?"

"It's easier to let people see what they want to."

"Not tonight," she insisted, so fiercely that he almost took a step backward. "I don't want to be Selina Kyle tonight. I don't want to be anybody. Is that so wrong?"

Bruce got the feeling she wasn't talking to him anymore, that her audience was invisible and distant.

"I want …" Selina clenched her hands into fists. "I want something I can't … No. I don't even know what I want. Except this." And suddenly she was pressed hard against him, pulling his head down and kissing him with desperate urgency.

Shocked and elated by the half-savagery of it, he wrapped his arms around her and forgot there was anything in the world but her mouth pulling hungrily at his, her hips and her breasts igniting fires where they ground against him, until he moaned and tugged at the top button of her blouse.

Selina pulled away, breaking the kiss, pushing out of his embrace. "I'm sorry," she gasped, and burst into tears.

Bruce felt like a teenager who'd absolutely and completely screwed up his big date without any idea of what he'd done wrong. "Are you all right?" he asked stupidly.

"This is so embarrassing," she gasped, wiping futilely at the tears that streaked her cheeks. "I don't know what gotten into …" Her voice broke, and she tried to laugh but failed.

Carefully, he laid a hand on her arm, and when she didn't push him away, he pulled her close. Selina hid her face against his chest and let her tears soak his shirtfront. After a moment, he lifted her carefully and sat down on the sofa, cradling her as though she might shatter with a breath.

When her soft, shuddering sobs eased, Bruce wedged a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out his handkerchief.

"I can't believe you actually carry a handkerchief," she muttered, accepting it and wiping her face.

"Good training," he said lightly. "Alfred's trying to teach Rick too, but it's not going so well."

She didn't smile at the poor joke. "Why are you still here?"

"Do you want me to go?"

"You idiot. You should have hit the door the second I started talking crazy."

"I like crazy."

"You are crazy."

"That too."

She sighed. "Do I look absolutely hideous?"

"Impossible," he replied gallantly.

She slipped an arm around his neck and rested her forehead against his. "You're lying, but do you mind if I try that again? I promise: No more psycho cry-girl."

"Selina." He held her gaze, ignoring the frown that flitted over her face. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his.

He still hesitated, twisting a strand of her ebony hair around his hand. "Why did you cry?"

She sighed against his mouth. "Because people always get hurt," she whispered, and kissed him, less urgently than before, but no less deeply, melting against him with a little cry.

He kissed back, teasing her mouth, letting his hands slowly explore the athletic lines of her body. He trailed kisses down her jaw and the curve of her neck, down the deep vee of her neckline. He undid the first button and the second. She caught his hands at the third.

"Bruce, I have to make sure you've thought about this could be if anyone—"

"Awkward be damned," he interrupted, and kissed her again, possessively, making short work of the other buttons while she was distracted.

He groaned as his hands slid across her smooth skin, and he started to tremble. He didn't remember ever wanting to be with a woman this badly, couldn't even recall for sure the last time he'd had sex. Sometime during the dark years when he'd first left his name behind. More than that, he was sure he didn't want to remember, and whatever it had been, it hadn't been like this. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, didn't want to do either.

He was a man in a desert who had tumbled unexpectedly into a raging river. He was drowning, slipping under for the third time.

He was lost.

* * *

Gordon stood on the front steps of the precinct, doing his best to ignore the new cameras that had managed to wangle their way to a good view. O'Hara and Sarah stood just behind him, grim, staunch, and loyal. Ranged along the front was a line of riot police, and other squads were in position father back. Despite protests, he'd insisted on recalling everyone's live ammunition and issuing only rubber bullets. He wasn't about to be pushed into a position where the lobbyists could start accusing him of citizen massacre.

A cacophony of angry shouts was rising from the crowd, but they died away as he lifted the bullhorn.

He didn't refer to the size of the crowd or their anger, trying to act as though he gave press releases to packed streets every week. "The GCPD would like to issue a statement concerning a recent series of murders. Thirteen people, none of whom have been found to have any connection to each other, have been murdered over the last two weeks. All of the victims had their necks broken, and the bodies were left in alleys. Although we cannot offer a specific profile on the killer at this time, we can say that he is probably—"

"Why haven't you increased patrols in our neighborhoods?" a faceless voice shouted from the crowd.

Deciding it was better to acknowledge the question than continue with his planned speech, Gordon explained, "The bodies were found over an area that covers more than twenty miles. This involves hundreds of streets and hundreds of thousands of residences. We simply don't have the manpower to increase patrols across the board. We have instituted some additional roving patrols, but you probably haven't noticed them, since they aren't regular."

His answer seemed to quiet the crowd slightly, and he hoped that maybe they really were going to listen. He took advantage of the lull to jump to another part of his hastily prepared statement. "Look, we really are doing everything we can to catch this guy. But he's very dangerous and very smart. GCPD is undermanned and underfunded. We always have been, and as far as I can tell, we always will be. But that's why, if you know anything at all about these killings, it is very important that you cooperate with our investigation. We can't—"

"Why should we cooperate?" somebody bellowed. "The police don't care about our neighborhoods! The mayor doesn't care about our neighborhoods! Nobody cares but us!"

"That's not true!" Gordon shouted, but nobody heard him. The crowd's tenuous restraint had snapped, and insults poured in from all sides, until the shouting became an indistinguishable roar.

O'Hara grabbed his arm. "Commissioner, we'd better get back inside. This is going to turn ugly."

Gordon resisted. "If I run, they'll think we really do have something to be ashamed of!"

And then everything happened at once.

At the front edge of the crowd, a group of protestors rushed the line of shields, drawing a hail of rubber bullets.

In the distance, the sounds of smashing glass and wailing alarms announced that the back of the crowd was done negotiating.

Another small group charged the precinct steps. Although most of them were repelled by the cops at the bottom, one made it to the top, where Sarah tackled him. "O'Hara, get the Commissioner inside!" she shouted, but the chief was already hand-to-hand with another attacker who had slipped through the barrier.

And then Gordon saw him charging forward, the crowd heaving itself out of his path, and heralding his arrival with a fanfare of screams. He was dressed all in black, except for the butterfly blazoned across his mask to form a white, misshapen face. He was too big to be real, a giant who had escaped straight out of a child's nightmare.

"Fire!" Gordon shouted, but the giant didn't even falter beneath the rain of rubber bullets as he leapt up the steps and knocked Gordon down with one, massive blow. Through a daze of pain, Gordon felt himself seized and lifted, heard a roar of triumph as the giant began to run.

As easily as waves severing beneath the prow of a ship, the crowd parted ahead of them and closed in behind them, cutting off all help and all escape.

* * *

There was a phone ringing somewhere.

Selina pulled him to his feet and reached into his jeans pocket, shut off the phone and tossed it onto the couch.

"Who was it?" he murmured, bending down to nuzzle her neck.

"I have no idea." Evading his embrace, she grabbed his hand and led him into her bedroom.

The air was thick with incense, and he half sat, half fell on the edge of the bed. He tried to pull her with him, but she resisted. "Give me just a minute."

Mumbling an incoherent protest, he tugged harder, and she swayed close, strong and supple.

"No rush," she breathed, her scent mingling with the incense until he felt drugged. "We have all night. All the endless night."

She pulled away again, and he let her go, although he was half sick with sheer desire. Selina retreated into the bathroom, and Bruce caught at the headboard and pulled himself upright, aching for a clear breath through the cloying incense.

Fumbling at the thick drapes, he found a balcony door and stepped out into the bitter cold. Spring never came early to Gotham, and in that moment he was grateful as he pulled in a lungful of bracing air. His head cleared, and his hands steadied. He could think again.

It wasn't just sex, he realized, and it wasn't just a weary desire to forget everything in a night of oblivion. It was this woman.

It was her beauty and grace, but also her wit and her strength. It was fighting with her on rooftops and flirting with her in glittering ballrooms (and trying not to get his butt kicked either way). It was seeing beneath her mask and daring to hope she saw through his.

He'd been fooling himself. Against all odds and all reason, he was falling in love.

Bruce suddenly remembered it was fifteen degrees out, and he was standing barefoot and shirtless on an icy balcony, grinning like a fool. It didn't matter. He was ready to go back in.

He set his hand on the doorknob, but paused as his ears caught a distant rumble. Straining to hear over the traffic, he recognized, faint but unmistakable, the angry roar of a crowd. The wind was wrong for the sound to be coming from the stadium, and there was nothing in that part of town that should be inspiring that kind of noise.

_No_, he thought. _It has nothing to do with me._ But the roaring grew louder. _No_.

The noise seemed to follow him inside, to swirl around him with warm air and incense. _It's nothing_, he thought, even as he slipped silently out of the bedroom and crossed to the kitchen. _Nothing I could do anything about_.

He switched on the television and saw an aerial view of GCPD's main precinct, the streets around it crammed black with a writhing mob.

A news anchor recited, _"One hour ago, over twenty thousand protesters began congregating in the streets around the precinct, demanding to speak to Commissioner James Gordon about a recent spate of murders in the docks area. But minutes ago, when the commissioner appeared in order to make a statement, the previously peaceful protest erupted in riot. The whereabouts of Commissioner Gordon are not presently known. We can only pray for his safety."_

The screen switched to a shot of a reporter on the ground, ambulances and fire trucks ranged behind him.

"_I'm standing here at an emergency care center. Although the city's riot squads have been dispatched, the sheer size of the crowd makes injuries and even fatalities unavoidable."_

A scream cut off his words, and the camera swung across to focus on four paramedics running onto the scene with a cot. The man on it was battered, but his blue police uniform was still recognizable. "It's got him! I saw it, it's got him! You gotta do something, please, somebody do something …."

_No_, Bruce thought helplessly. _Not tonight, oh please, not tonight,_ he pleaded, even as he glided into the living room, snatched up his shirt and his shoes and his phone, found his coat, unlocked the front door, didn't look toward the bedroom.

He ran.

* * *

For an exhilarating moment, Gordon was weightless, his body soaring through the air, and then he slammed against the brick wall of the alley. He only wanted to crumple into a ball on the ground and not move, but his captor dragged him back up, pulled the handcuffs off his belt, and chained him to a protruding pipe. His pockets were emptied next, and the giant tossed the keys on the ground, tantalizingly in sight but well out of reach. The masked man opened the cell phone, grunted in satisfaction as the light flicked on, and set it next to the keys.

A part of Gordon still wouldn't believe it was happening, that the thing in front of him was real. The disbelief kept him strangely calm and helped him focus through the pain. "What do you want with me?"

"I don't want you. I'll kill you, but not yet." Gordon struggled to understand the accented words through the ringing in his ears.

"I suppose you have to make me pay," he grunted, doing his best to sound dazed, even though his head was beginning to clear. "It's too easy to just kill me."

"Don't worry, Commissioner. I have no interest in your suffering. You death will be fast. Does that comfort you?" It laughed. "But despair is a powerful weapon, one I don't intend to hand over. I don't underestimate my enemies, and it's better to fight a man who has something to lose."

So they were waiting for the Bat. Other possibilities didn't even cross Gordon's mind. "What if he doesn't come?"

"For you, it makes no difference."

_Maybe not_, Gordon thought, his mind working at full capacity now. He tried to consider his options. He had no gun, and no convenient weapons were within reach. Even if his legs had been working right (which they weren't), he was handcuffed to the wall with little chance of breaking loose.

He really hoped the Bat was going to show up.

-break-

Bruce ignored the missed calls message on his phone and dialed Alfred's cell. The butler picked up midway through the first ring, worry and relief evident in his voice: "Master Wayne."

"I need you to track Gordon's cell phone."

"I am. It's been stationary in an alley off Fifty-second and Westheimer for about two minutes. It's inside the riot zone."

"I know the one," Bruce said, trying not to think about the dark possibilities of a stationary signal. "Can you get any kind of a camera view?"

"No."

"Somewhere close I can ditch the bike?"

"A parking garage two blocks west, just before the police cordon. I'm feeding a loop through the security cameras now."

Bruce wondered how long Alfred had been waiting for him to check in, and then he shoved the thought aside, along with everything else he couldn't afford to think about. All that mattered was finding Gordon.

He swerved the bike around the security arm in the garage and parked on the second level. Jamming the helmet beneath the wheel, he snatched off the ski hat and tore a couple of eye holes with the tip of a key. The hat only came down as far as his upper lip, but it was the best he could do. Climbing over the open side of the garage, he dropped into the street and began making his way through the riot zone.

Slipping past the nervous and distracted police line was easy. But half a block in, he stumbled into a fierce battle between two cops and a dozen rioters. One punch drunk protester, obviously not caring who he hit, lunged at Bruce, who simply dodged, much more worried about the sudden hiss of released tear gas. He ducked into an alley and found a fire escape just in time to climb above the crippling fumes.

He stuck to the roofs as much as he could after that, a swift shadow passing over the screaming, seething mass of the riot.

* * *

"So what's your beef with Batman?" Gordon asked, when he decided he'd spent enough time acting like a good little hostage. "Is it just because he's there? Or did he take something away from you?" When the giant remained silent, he shouted, "Come on, man! You're tearing my city apart, and I have the right to know why!"

The giant grinned, the flash of white teeth blending with the white of his mask. "Answers don't matter for you anymore."

"They matter to me!"

The giant leaned down until the mask leered only inches away from Gordon's face. "I want his inheritance."

"What?" Gordon demanded, but the giant was straightening, turning, as the dark form of a man fell from the roof and slammed into him.

* * *

Enormous as the giant was, Bruce expected to feel him lose balance; at least _stumble_ as they impacted. But Gordon's captor didn't even flinch—it was like trying to attack a wall. Before Bruce could administer a choke hold, he was seized and flung across the alley. Instinctively, he curled protectively, but even so, sharp pain shot through his ribs as he hit the brick wall. Rebounding, he grabbed for the fire escape and shot upward, ignoring his lack of air. There was no time to recover. Once had been enough to tell him that if they closed again, the fight would be over.

The fire escape shuddered as his heavier adversary climbed in pursuit. Bruce scrambled to the roof, ripped free a TV antenna, and threw it down. It skidded across the giant's face, ripping the mask, and smearing it with blood, but it didn't slow him.

Bruce retreated further onto the roof, looking for the length of ancient pipe he'd spotted before he'd jumped. The giant gained the roof and charged as Bruce's hand closed over the improvised weapon. He side-stepped the attack and swung, but the pipe slammed ineffectually into the giant's shoulder.

They recovered, circled, lunged.

Each time, Bruce managed to stay just ahead of the crushing grip, landing punishing blows with his make-shift club, but his opponent didn't even seem to feel them, shrugging them off like so many annoying flies. Bruce's aching ribs kept his breath short, and he began to grow lightheaded. He would stumble soon, and then he would be dead.

Slowly, he maneuvered toward the edge of the roof. _If I go down, he goes with me._

* * *

Gordon stretched his arm out and pulled until he thought the cuff would bite right through his wrist, but he keys remained unreachable. A heavy thump drew his eyes irresistibly upward, but he could only hear the fight, not see it. He was afraid, though, that Batman was getting the worst of it. If it was Batman. It had to be, didn't it?

"Jim!" Sarah ran into the alley, her gun clenched in one hand, a long cut marring her cheek, her hair wisping around her bloodstained face. "Are you all right? Where—"

Up there!" he interrupted, pointing to the roof. "Get the …" He broke off as two figures lunged into view on the roof's edge. The smaller one—too small, too frail to possibly be the Bat—swung his pipe, but the giant wrenched it away and tossed it aside, as his other hand reach for Batman … _not the Bat_ …

"Sarah, shoot!"

She jerked her gun up and fired three times. The giant staggered and fell over the edge. One massive hand caught his opponent's shoulder, and then the Bat (_not the Bat_) was falling too.

"No!" Gordon shouted.

The giant's body thudded against the ground. Gordon stared at it, horrified, waiting for the second, smaller victim to land, but there was nothing. Nothing except a small piece of black cloth that dropped softly onto the giant's chest.

Gordon looked up and saw the other man hanging off the edge of the roof, his hair dark and his face pale and indistinct in the moonlight. No one he could ever recognize again.

Slowly, the man pulled himself back up over the edge. He disappeared.

Sarah grabbed his arm. "Was that—"

"No," Gordon muttered. "It wasn't him. Is he dead?" He nodded toward his erstwhile kidnapper.

Gun pointed, Sarah stepped over and nudged the big man with her foot, then reached down to feel for a pulse. "Still alive. I think I just hit him in the shoulder."

"You found some live ammo?"

She smiled weakly. "You're not going to put me on report for disobeying orders, are you? Jim, we've got to get out of here."

"We can't just leave him here! Call for backup and paramedics."

"There is no backup."

"Oh." For a moment, he'd forgotten that twenty thousand people were running amok.

Sarah grabbed the keys and unlocked his cuffs. "Come on," she ordered, handing him his phone and keys.

"Just a second." He knelt by the body and pulled off the tattered mask so that he could snap a picture, then stood, casually stuffing the phone and a black ski hat into his jacket pocket. "Let's go." He turned to lead the way out of the alley, but stumbled.

Sarah grabbed his arm and hoisted it over her shoulders. "Lean on me."

Clinging to the shadows, they made their way out of the riot zone, neither one aware of the man who followed them, watching, until they were safe.

* * *

Selina leaned her forehead against the cold glass of her living room window. She felt numb. In the kitchen, the television chattered, still turned on, just as she had found it.

"_We've just received word that Commissioner Gordon is safe. He is in an undisclosed location, being treated for minor injuries."_

Someone knocked on her door.

Animated by hope, she flew down the short hall and flung open the door. For one moment, she stared at the bloody and disheveled man before her, and then she grasped his arm and yanked him inside.

"Bane," she hissed, loathing carved into her expression. "I told you never to come here."

He half collapsed against the wall and stared at her, his pupils contracted into pinpricks—the sign that the steroid source of his supernatural strength was fading from his system. "It hardly matters now, don't you think?"

"Because you failed? Whipped like the cur you are. From the beginning, I knew you were a mistake."

"Such words from a woman whose failure was even bigger than my own. You didn't get what you were after, did you?" His eyes raked mercilessly over the brief black negligee she still wore. "No, I don't think you did."

Her fists clenched in rage, but there was nothing she could say.

He pushed himself away from the wall and grabbed her wrists, too strong for her to fight, despite his waning power.

"Do not touch me," she snarled, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her struggle.

To her surprise, he obeyed, stepping back and holding up his hands with an innocent air. "Of course. If that's what you really want."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"We're both in very deep trouble. But we might be able to come to an arrangement that would help us both."

* * *

Bruce shivered with cold as he guided the bike up the last few feet of the Manor drive. Abandoning the motorcycle at the foot of the stairs, he focused on ascending without limping, using the pain to avoid thinking about anything—not about losing his mask, not about Gordon or the riot, and not about Selina. Especially not about Selina.

Shutting the front door, he leaned against it, trying to draw a deep breath against the pain in his ribs and wondering where Alfred was. He had expected the butler to meet him at the door, especially since his cell phone had been smashed in the fight and he hadn't been able to call.

Bruce trudged along the hallway, mentally counting all the places that hurt. As he dragged his feet past the library, he heard Alfred's voice and sighed in relief. The butler was talking on the phone, his back to the door. Bruce leaned against the doorframe and waited for the call to end.

"Of course, we'll do everything we can," Alfred was saying. "No, no need to thank me, we're very concerned and happy to help … Not at all … Call if you hear anything further, don't worry about the time … Goodnight."

Alfred hung up the phone and slowly turned. Bruce waited for the inevitable look of disapproval, the acerbic commentary that usually veiled the butler's concern. But Alfred only reached down and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

Something was very wrong. Alfred looked older than Bruce had ever seen him, his face an unhealthy gray, and his shoulders finally stooped like the old man he was.

Bruce spoke first. "What's happened?"

It took Alfred another moment to find his voice. "That was Mrs. Peaceable on the phone. There was a paramilitary attack on Dr. Marquez's home. Several people were killed. Dr. Marquez and Dr. Peaceable have disappeared."

The world spun into terror. Bruce clung to the doorframe, trying to keep from being pulled under. "Dick?"

Alfred shook his head. "I don't know."

_End of Part 1_

**A/N** Don't worry, Part 2 will only be about half as long as Part 1. And there is no Part 3. The end is almost in sight!

By the way, I wouldn't take it amiss if SOMEONE were to leave me a birthday review. Or twenty.

(Ok, FINE! Technically my birthday was yesterday, and I totally meant to post, but it was my birthday, and I had to do stuff, plus I ended up talking to my parents on the phone for two hours, which was great because I like my parents, but it cut into my writing time, and so I didn't finish the chapter until today. BUT IT STILL COUNTS!)


	23. March: Militare

**A/N** Slowly but surely, sentence by sentence, word by word. Thanks especially for all of the wonderful reviews I got last chapter!

**Disclaimer** Author cannot be held responsible for, well, anything.

**Part 2**

_They cannot scare me with their empty spaces__  
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.__  
I have it in me so much nearer home  
To scare myself with my own desert places._

_-Robert Frost_

**Colombia – 3 days before the Gotham riot**

Chapter 22

_It's a small world after all._

_-Disney World_

Alex grit his teeth as the truck slammed over another bump in the road, and he cast a worried look at Rick, who was slumped next to him. There was fresh scarlet leaking through the make-shift tourniquet on his shoulder.

Across from them, their guard caught Alex's gaze and stroked his AK-47 meaningfully.

Alex shut his eyes, hoping that they would get wherever they were going soon, and that there would be a doctor there. Rick was growing increasingly pale, and Alex was growing increasingly worried. Not that he hadn't been worried since the day he'd driven to the airport.

* * *

_Ten days earlier_

Alex stood on the edge of the tiny landing field, his white cotton shirt stuck to his back with perspiration, even though he had just climbed out of his air conditioned Land Cruiser. The equatorial sun blazed down from a clear sky, and he could smell hot tar and, beneath it, the moist green smell of the jungle that crept forward over the cleared strips bordering the runway.

A bead of sweat ran down his temple, and he considered stepping into the converted hangar that served Florencia for a terminal. Deciding it would probably be even more sweltering inside, he settled on a block of wood beneath the shade of a palm tree.

He'd been surprised by the phone call late the night before. Strain had been evident in Alfred's tone as he'd said, "We're in a bit of a situation here at the Manor, and I'd take it as a personal favor if you would help."

Alex had cautiously agreed to do what he could, and Alfred had explained that the son of one of the Manor's maids had not only gotten himself expelled from school, but there was a possibility of criminal charges. The woman had come to Alfred, begging for his help in sending the boy to his father in Colombia. "She has been with us a long time, and there were … extenuating circumstances that made me feel we should help her. Master Wayne agreed. The boy's father lives about a hundred miles from Dr. Marquez's compound, and we were hoping you could pick the boy up at the airport."

It was a simple enough favor, and Alex had immediately agreed, although it was seventy-five miles over bad roads to Florencia. But as he sat in the heat, he wondered again just what Alfred had meant by extenuating circumstances.

The whine of a small plane engine cut through the heavy air. A speck on the horizon rapidly grew into an ancient Cessna 310, which touched down, bounced several times, and skidded to a stop. The roar of the twin engines died, and Alex stood, brushing wood splinters off his shorts as a couple of men ambled out of the terminal and toward the plane.

The plane door opened and the pilot hopped down, then offered his hand to assist a woman in an orange and green muumuu. She was embraced and kissed on both cheeks by one of the men from the terminal while the other opened the tiny baggage compartment and began hauling out boxes that probably contained farming equipment.

As the other men moved to help unload the cargo, another figure appeared in the door of the plane. He was slender and deeply tanned, with black hair that tumbled untidily over his forehead. _At least he's not too white on the outside. That'll make it easier for him to fit in_, Alex thought sympathetically as the kid jumped out of the plane and slung a duffel bag over his shoulder.

Alex walked forward, wondering whether the boy even knew who to look for. As they drew closer, he had a strange sense of familiarity. The boy reminded him strongly of someone else he knew, someone whose name he'd recall in a minute. The kid pulled off his sunglasses, and as Alex caught a direct gaze from dark brown eyes, the sense of familiarity was overwhelming and he thought that he must have met this kid, only he was _wrong_ somehow. Then the boy reached up a slim, brown hand to shove the hair off his forehead in a gesture Alex had seen performed a thousand times in the schoolroom at Wayne Manor, and with stunned recognition, he realized he was looking at Richard Grayson.

"You're Mr. Peaceable?" Richard asked, no recognition crossing his impossibly tanned face.

"Yeah," muttered Alex, still mentally reeling. "Is this all your luggage?"

"Yeah. They don't let you take much when you're exiled." There was unfamiliar bitterness in the remark, but Alex only led the way to the car, knowing that they could not, _must_ not, talk out here in the open.

Richard kept quiet as they drove away from the airport and down the cobblestoned main street, and Alex didn't try talking as he navigated a couple of stray dogs and a soccer game. When they were clear of the town, with the jungle walls pressing closer and narrowing the cleared fields, he finally asked, "_Were _you expelled?"

"No."

Alex sighed, not in the mood for sulky teenage games. "Then why are you here?" No need to ask about the identity ruse. When the ward of one of America's richest men traveled to a country with one of the world's highest kidnapping rates, he had better have a disguise. Or an army.

Watching from the corner of his eye, Alex saw the muscles in Richard's jaw clench, and then the boy snapped, "There was a shooting at Bailey."

Two months of practice on a stick shift were not enough to override a lifetime of instincts trained to an automatic. Forgetting about the clutch, Alex slammed on the brake and the motor sputtered and died. "By a student?"

"Yeah. Bruce _freaked_."

Freaking out, Alex could understand. He was panicking right now over something that was obviously over and Richard was sitting safely beside him. What he couldn't interpret was that emphasis on the word 'freaked.' Was it disgust? Anger? Betrayal?

A horn blast behind them reminded Alex they were stopped in the middle of the road. He restarted the engine and made proper use of his clutch to put them back in gear. "Ok, I understand why he pulled you out of school, but why send you here?"

Richard folded his arms over his chest, and Alex decided that the hidden emotion was anger. A lot of it. "You'll have to ask Bruce about that. He didn't spend a lot of time explaining before he dumped me on the plane."

* * *

The next rut made their kidnappers' truck buck like a rodeo bull. Alex had to grab the side of the truck bed to keep from falling over, and a stifled moan escaped from Rick as his injured shoulder slammed against the wheel well. Alex squinted through the gloom at their guard. "Excuse me, sir," he began, trying to be polite, "how much farther are we going? The boy needs to see a doctor."

"Shut up," the guard hissed.

Alex subsided, watching the glimpses of jungle he could see out the back of the pickup's cover. Dr. Marquez's compound was hours behind them, and he hadn't even been aware that there was a drivable road that penetrated this deep into the jungle. Although drivable was an exaggeration, he thought as they bounced in the air again.

He hoped that Dr. Marquez was all right. The mathematician had been hustled into the cab of the truck, forced to sit with their other two abductors. Alex tried to cheer himself with the thought that Marquez had probably asked one of his guards for a pen so that he could scribble down his latest idea on the back of his hand.

The daylight was completely gone when the truck finally rattled to a halt. Alex went limp with relief. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Shut up!" the guard snarled.

Alex rolled his eyes in the darkness. _What a surprise_. He heard the pickup doors opening and feet crunching through undergrowth. Then the tailgate was thrown down and the _capitán_ of the group was waving a gun at them. "Get down, quickly!"

Alex and Rick crawled toward the opening. Alex staggered as his stiff legs hit the ground, and he noticed Rick clinging to the side of the truck. Even their guard took a few moments to stamp the cramps out of his legs.

The man from the cab spoke to his comrade. "Hide them in the trees. If they make a noise, shoot them."

"Why is it always me?" their guard grumbled, and smacked Alex's shoulder with the muzzle of his gun. "Hurry up!"

Once they were out of the small clearing and past the first layer of trees, the guard forced them to lie down on their stomachs and put their hands on their heads. Rick cried out in pain as he tried to lift his wounded arm, so the guard (oh so generously) let him keep it at his side.

They lay there for what seemed like hours, although when Alex looked at his watch afterward, he found it had only been forty-five minutes. Every so often, he thought he could feel something skittering across him. _Lizards_, he thought. _Frogs_. _Bugs. Nothing to be afraid of._ He prayed the snakes were choosing a different path tonight. He wondered where Dr. Marquez was.

* * *

_Five days earlier_

Alex was in the middle of a dream about cheeseburgers the size of pi when the screaming woke him up. He sat bolt upright, disoriented in the darkness, and then he stood and hurried to the other bed in the small room. "Rick, wake up!" He shook the teen's shoulder, and Rick woke up, gasping.

"I was dreaming."

"No kidding. Are you all right?"

"Sorry. I haven't done that in a long time. I thought I'd outgrown it." He sat up, pushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead.

Alex made a fast decision. "Come on," he ordered, flipping on the light. "Let's go have a snack. You scared the bejeebers out of me."

"Sorry," Rick apologized again.

In the kitchen, Alex poured orange juice and found some bread and goat cheese. Rick picked at his snack, but didn't really eat, his expression closed.

_Nothing like the direct approach_, Alex reminded himself. "Do you always have the same dream?"

Rick's gaze didn't waver from his plate. "No."

"What did you dream about this time?"

"It doesn't matter." Rick started to jab his knife into the soft cheese, caught himself, and carefully shaved off a piece.

_Where did he learn so much control?_ Alex wondered. _Certainly not from Wayne_. "It does matter," he objected. "You said you hadn't dreamed like that in years. Was it about the shooting?"

"It's just a dream, Alex."

Alex gave up on any kind of diplomacy. "Maybe you don't want to talk about it, but I do. You can't fly down here, tell me you were taken hostage in your own school, and expect me to be okay with that. Especially when it's obvious it's not okay with you." He paused hopefully, but Rick stared stubbornly down at the table, so Alex pushed on. "Look, I don't know what's going on with Wayne, and I agree he shouldn't have shipped you off alone, but if you're honest, we both know that he's not exactly emotionally mature. It's possible that he really can't handle it, and if that's true, then you're going to have to accept it and move on without him."

Rick was staring at him like he'd lost his marbles. Alex considered retracting the statement, but it was something he'd felt like saying for a long time. It was hard, but Rick was old enough to hear it.

The boy pushed back from the table, and Alex's heart sank, as he feared he had only made things worse. But Rick didn't leave. Instead, he began pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen table.

"He wanted a witness," he said suddenly.

"Who wanted a witness?"

"David. We'd had a few conversations. I mean, it was obvious the guy was messed up, so I told him about my mom. I thought maybe he needed someone to talk to, but he always blew me off. Until the last time. And then he took me down to the basement, where he had this shrine set up to his mom and his grandfather. And then he told me I would understand and he blew his brains out."

"It wasn't your fault."

"_Yes, it was!_" Rick shouted. "I said the wrong thing, I didn't say the right thing, I should have grabbed the gun away from him. For God's sake, Alex, I should have done something! David is dead because I didn't think fast enough! Bruce doesn't want me around, and I don't blame him."

Alex realized he had misread the direction of the boy's anger. It wasn't for Wayne at all—it was for himself. Rick's face was averted, and Alex thought he was trying not to cry.

"In the first place," the tutor said quietly, "I can guarantee that, whatever my personal opinion of Bruce Wayne may be, he did not send you to me because he blames you for David's death. And in the second place, you're going to have to accept that people make their own choices. You can't stop that."

Rick kept his face hidden, but his shoulders were stiff, and Alex knew he wasn't getting through. But before he could figure out what should come next, Dr. Marquez wandered into the kitchen.

He was wearing an old fashioned red nightshirt, and it flapped around his skinny, wrinkled knees as he moved. There was chalk dust all along one sleeve, and Alex surmised that the old man had once again neglected to actually go to bed in favor of pursuing some train of thought that had struck him while he was brushing his teeth. The genius's erratic habits were the despair of Rosa, his faithful housekeeper.

Now he sat down at the table and beamed at them both, utterly unaware of the thick tension that filled the kitchen. "I've been thinking of putting in a swimming pool," he announced, "for Rosa's grandchildren. What do you think?"

* * *

At last they heard the roar of another truck, coming up the same road they had used. Its headlights careened wildly over the clearing as it bounced over the last few ruts and came to a stop, its engine idling. A man vaulted out of the uncovered bed, and even though it was too dark to see much, Alex's eyes widened in amazement as he took in the massive silhouette blocking out the headlights. It was absolutely the biggest man he had ever seen.

The murmur of voices without distinguishable words was just audible above the noise of insects and frogs. After a minute of conversation, the leader of their abductors motioned toward the truck. One of the others opened the passenger's door, and Dr. Marquez emerged.

The giant newcomer gestured, and mathematician slowly approached the other truck. His new captor opened the cab door for him and helped him inside.

"Are you sure it's safe to go back by the same road?" the captain called, for the first time speaking loud enough to let his voice carry to those hiding in the trees.

"It doesn't matter. I have to keep an appointment in Gotham City," the new man called back, laughing, and Alex's eyes again widened in surprise. He turned his head to look at Rick, but the boy's face was buried in the leaves. Alex hoped he was still conscious.

The large man hopped back into the bed of his truck, and with a loud grinding of gears, it managed a u-turn and roared back down the road. When the sound of the engine had faded, their guard told them to get up, using the toe of his boot.

Prodded by their guard, they went back out to the clearing. The _capitán_ was lighting a cigarette, looking pleased. "Good work," he told his comrade. "He never even guessed we had—"

Shots exploded in the dirt around them, and the paramilitaries dove for cover. Alex and Rick crawled under the truck and stayed there as the bullets flew and a dozen dark figures invaded the clearing. Alex saw the _capitán_ make it to the edge of the clearing and disappear into the trees. The shooting stopped.

The muzzle of a rifle was jabbed underneath the truck, and a man ordered, "You under there, come out!"

They crawled out. A man in fatigues grinned at them. "Don't worry, _amigos_. You're safe now. You've been rescued by the FARC."

* * *

_12 hours earlier_

Alex had been with Dr. Marquez in the air conditioned computer room, struggling to help the mathematician focus on writing his new grant application. Although his funding was more or less perpetually guaranteed by the state university, he was still required to do paperwork, something which challenged his chronic absentmindedness. Alex was patiently redirecting the genius's information to the online form for the third time when two gunmen had burst into the room.

They both had AK47s, and Alex and Marquez had been forced onto their knees with their hands behind their heads, the elderly man looking completely confused.

"You help the rebels!" screamed one. "You're a traitor to your country, you should die!"

"No," protested Dr. Marquez. "We help no rebels here. We are loyal to the government. I work for the state university."

"You're traitors!" the first man shouted again, shaking his gun in Dr. Marquez's face.

"Please, he's telling the truth," Alex tried to intervene, but the second man shoved a gun in his face. "You want to die? Filthy American." He spat.

And that was when Rick crashed through the window.

The one who had his gun on Alex turned and fired. The next thing Alex knew, Rick was huddled on the floor, a hand clapped to his shoulder and blood seeping between his fingers. "I'm going to kill you, you stupid kid!" the man with the gun was screaming. "I'm going to blow your brains out, and your friends can lick them off the floor, how do you like that?"

"Don't kill him!" Alex shouted. "He's American! You can get a ransom!" As both their captors turned to look at him, he added, "His mother works for a very rich American man. Americans are very sentimental about children. I am sure you can get a lot of money for him."

"It's true," Dr. Marquez added, finally looking like he understood what was going on.

"_Americano_?" the gunman sneered, jabbing Rick's wounded shoulder with the muzzle of his gun.

"_Si_," the boy gasped in his worst accent. "I'm American."

* * *

Alex wished he could doze as easily as Rick seemed to, but every time he felt his eyelids sinking, a swell would rock their small boat, and he would jerk himself awake. Every time this happened, his new "friends," would chuckle, and offer him a drink from a flask. It was absolutely the worst homemade liquor Alex had ever tasted, and after one sip, he politely refused all further offers.

After a short march through the jungle from the clearing where FARC had attacked, they came to a river where two small boats were pulled up on the bank. Alex and Rick were directed into one, along with three of the guerrillas. The rest of the men piled into the other boat, and they set out, riding with the current until they came to a sluggish tributary, where they turned and cut in the outboard motors to travel upstream.

It was definitely better than being in the hands of the paramilitaries, although Alex had an uneasy feeling that being a "guest" of FARC didn't mean they'd be free to leave in the morning. He was at least grateful that one of them who claimed some medical experience had re-bandaged Ricks's arm and promised that there would be a doctor at the camp. Wherever that was.

What little moonlight had drifted through the overhanging branches was completely gone by the time the guerillas steered their boats to the bank, and Alex wondered how they could possibly know where they were in the smothering darkness. He and Rick splashed up to the shore, where there sentries waiting for them, shielded flashlights not throwing enough illumination to keep Alex from tripping over every root. A short walk through the trees, and then they stepped into a clearing. The dark shapes of crude lean-tos where just visible in the light of one small fire.

One of the guerillas who had travelled with them in the boat beckoned to a boy squatting by the fire. "Take our new friends to join our other guests, and have the doctor look at this one's arm," he ordered, patting Rick on the back.

The boy nodded, his face very serious in the faint light, and beckoned Rick and Alex to follow him. When they got close to one of the lean-tos, they saw that mosquito netting hung around it on three sides. The roof was a plastic sheet topped with woven branches, supported on a series of rough hewn poles. The back wall was more plastic. Two dark figures were lying on pallets, but they sat up as the boy pushed back the mosquito netting and entered. One of them struck a match and the dim light of a lantern filled the lean-to.

"_Americanos_," the boy said briefly. "This one's hurt. I'll bring the medical kit." He ducked back out of the mosquito netting.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Alex could see that both of their fellow "guests" were women, although their hair was chopped short and they wore the ubiquitous fatigues. One was clearly American, her weathered skin and iron gray hair proclaiming her age. The other woman might have been Colombian, with darker skin and hair, and from the extreme thinness of her face, Alex thought she'd probably been ill. _Malaria_, he guessed. She caught him examining her and smiled, a sardonic expression without any mirth.

"Welcome to our luxurious accommodations. Please, take any seat you like."

At her voice, Rick started and leaned forward, squinting. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Fellow guests of FARC, like yourselves." Picking up the lantern, she stood and held it so that the light cascaded over the boy's features. She adjusted her glasses, and then Alex saw one dark eyebrow quirk upward in surprise. "Well, Richard. It has been a long time."

Rick smiled. "Hello, Miss Somerville."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** The FARC (_Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia_) is the military wing of the Colombian Communist party.

Somerville is back, WOOHOO!

Thank you all, again, for your patient faithfulness to this story!

As a special thank you for all reviewers of this chapter, I will PM you a deleted scene of Alex looking up the Bailey shooting online and trying, once again, to figure out Bruce Wayne. (If you want the deleted scene, make sure you're logged in when you review. If you don't have an account, and leave me an email address, make sure that you put enough spaces in the middle of it that the site doesn't delete it. I've received several reviews over the past weeks where someone tried to give me their email, but the site deleted it.)


	24. March: Jungle Rhythm

**A/N** Nobody die from shock. It's just a new chapter.

**Chapter 23**

Rick smiled. "Hello, Miss Somerville," he said, and then his body crumpled and he fell forward.

Somerville caught him, staggering under the weight, and Alex hurried to help her.

"Lay him down here," the older woman directed, straightening one of the pallets. "What happened?"

"A band of paramilitaries attacked our compound this morning. Well," Alex realized, "maybe yesterday morning. Rick got shot, trying to help me and Dr. Marquez, who is now God only knows where. Oh," he remembered, "he also jumped through a window."

Somerville snorted and Alex looked at her in surprise. "It's not funny!"

"The last time I encountered Mr. Grayson he was jumping from a balcony in Wayne Manor, convinced he could fly," she told him.

"Wait." Alex stared at her. "You're the social worker, aren't you? They told me about that incident, and Alfred said you got the tutor fired."

It impossible to read her face in the dim light, but Alex thought she sounded pleased as she answered, "It seems I left an impression."

"By the way," Alex said hastily as he caught sight of the boy returning with the medical kit, "they don't know who he is. I told them he was the son of a maid in Wayne Manor. That was the identity he came into the country with."

Somerville nodded and then the older woman said, "From what I can tell, he's a very lucky young man. Half an inch higher and the bullet would have shattered the bone, but it just tore through the underarm flesh. He's lost a lot of blood, but with rest and nutrition, and if we can keep infection out, he'll be fine."

It was only then that Alex realized just how tense and panicked he had been. His knees gave way and he collapsed into a huddled heap on the ground. He thought he might cry, and he grit his teeth in an attempt to choke back the tears.

He heard voices around him, and then someone laid a hand on his shoulder and held a steaming tin mug beneath his nose. "Try this. It'll steady your nerves," Somerville said kindly as he took the cup.

The brew was bitter and strong, but after a few scalding swallows, he did feel better. Looking around, he saw that Somerville was holding the lantern over Rick's shoulder, while the older woman, who was evidently the doctor the guerillas had promised, worked on the wound. The boy sat just outside the mosquito netting, watching with interest.

Alex's cup had been empty for some time before the doctor sat back on her heels and declared, "If he's got any constitution at all, he'll pull through." She looked at Alex inquiringly.

"He's pretty healthy," he told her.

"Good." She packed up the kit and pushed it out the door to the boy. "Go on," she ordered. "Tell the _teniente_ I didn't steal anything." The boy grinned and scurried off.

"I suppose we should introduce ourselves." The doctor squatted next to Alex and offered her hand. "Dr. Nina Jenkins."

"Dr. Alex Peaceable," he answered, shaking her hand. "Ph.D., not M.D."

"Yes, you mentioned Gabriel Marquéz. I met him once. He's an interesting man."

"He is that." Alex sighed. "I hope he's all right."

"You said paramilitaries attacked your compound?" Somerville asked from where she still knelt next to Richard.

"Yes."

"Did they take other hostages?"

"I don't know. There was an elderly caretaker and his wife, and their three grandchildren, but I didn't see any of them."

"If they weren't alive when you left," Somerville said matter-of-factly, "how long will it be before anyone knows you're missing?"

The question had crossed Alex's mind several times during the interminable truck ride, but he had no good answer. "I'm not expecting a call from the States until the end of the week. The compound is isolated—we only get grocery deliveries once a month." Lowering his voice to be sure it wouldn't carry past their lean-to, Alex asked, "What is our situation? The men who attacked our kidnappers told us we'd been, uh, rescued."

"If you're asking whether you're better off in the hands of FARC than with a paramilitary gang, the answer is yes," Nina answered. "If you're asking whether you can go home tomorrow, however, I can only tell you that I've been a guest with FARC for four years."

"That's because you patch their bullet holes so well," Somerville interjected.

"I may find their politics reprehensible, but I'm not going to let them bleed to death in front of me."

"I didn't say you should," Somerville mildly replied.

Alex sensed an old battle, long debated between the two women. "Miss Somerville, how long have you been a, uh, guest?"

"It's Cecilia. A year and a half, I think, but the months I was down with malaria are a little hazy."

"The prospects are better for the two of you," Nina said encouragingly. "My mission organization has a no ransom policy, so I'm more useful to them here. You and Richard, however, may have significant cash value."

"We do," Alex affirmed. At least, he hoped Wayne would front the ransom for both of them. He didn't think Alfred would let the playboy leave him stranded in the rainforest.

* * *

Cecilia sat cross-legged in front of the lean-to, her three fellow hostages sound asleep behind her. She dragged on her cigarette, trying to smoke it slowly because her stash was running low. She would have to talk a couple of the guards into another card game before she smoked away all her stakes.

So. Richard Grayson.

He was so changed that she had almost failed to recognize him. But there was something about the way his clear gaze had held hers and the impishness of that smile that was unmistakable, and she knew that he was the same strong-hearted boy she remembered.

It made her glad, and for a minute she recalled the few good memories of that nightmare visit to Gotham.

But on the whole, there were approximately five billion people on the planet she would have rather have seen marched into camp. The problem wasn't Richard. The problem was who would be coming after him.

Most parents would contact the experts. They'd follow every piece of advice about hostage negotiation, and if all went well, they'd get their child, the guerillas would get their money, and everyone would go home.

If. If everything went well. It might not. Bruce Wayne would find the risk unacceptable. He would come himself, with his formidable fighting skills, his cutting edge technology, his endless resources. And all hell would break loose.

It was possible, of course, that he would succeed in being discreet, that he could silently extract his ward and reappear in Gotham City, no one the wiser. But Cecilia had spent a year and a half as a prisoner in the deep jungle, and she didn't think even Bruce Wayne was capable of finding one small group of rebels in millions of acres of impenetrable forest.

All hell was most certainly going to break loose.

* * *

Rick blinked at the blue plastic sheet over his head and tried to remember where he was before the pain in his shoulder killed him (if the headache didn't do it first). Doing his best to take his focus off the agony, he struggled to bring up his most recent memories. He distinctly recalled a gunman on the point of shooting Alex, and he rather thought he'd jumped through a window. And then …

_I got shot_.

That explained why his shoulder felt gripped by flaming hot pincers. Now he remembered that getting shot had been followed by a long truck ride, and then shooting and another journey. He'd gotten that far when a brisk voice asked, "Well, young man, how are you feeling?" The wrinkled face of a woman moved into his view.

Rick opened his mouth, but the only sound he could make was a dry rasping. The woman picked up a canteen and unscrewed the top, then gently tilted his head so he could drink. "Slowly," she warned, and Rick obeyed, letting the water seep over his tongue to the back of his throat. "How do you feel?" she tried again, when he had swallowed several sips.

"Ok," he managed.

She frowned. "Young man, in addition to being your physician, I am old enough to be your grandmother. Don't lie to me. How does your shoulder feel?"

"Bad," he admitted. "Head too."

"That sounds more likely." She held a different cup to his lips. He made a face at the bitter taste, but she insisted that he drink. "Coca tea is the best I can do for an anesthetic at the moment. It's no morphine, but it's something." Rick obeyed, and as he sipped at the cup, he felt a haze drop over his pain. It was definitely still there, but it felt as though a small gap had opened between his mind and the hurt.

"He's awake?" a voice over his head asked, and then Somerville knelt on the ground beside him. He grinned at her, and her eyebrows shot up. "How strong did you brew the tea?" she asked Nina.

"Strong."

Somerville picked up the cup, sniffed it, and grimaced. "The _teniente_ has a stash of the processed stuff. I could probably talk him out of a dose or two."

Nina shook her head, looking dour. "He's young. Better he take the pain than that poison."

"Hope I never get shot," Somerville muttered, setting the cup back down. "Richard, I need to ask you some questions."

"Ok!" he said brightly.

She bent her head and lowered her voice. "Do you have any idea what Wayne's going to do?"

That was something he'd thought about on the long truck ride. "He'll come." Rick was sure about that.

Somerville sighed. "I know. But do you know how? Does he have any way of finding you?"

He'd left all of his hi-tech gear in Gotham. "Nope."

"What was the emergency plan?"

Rick thought back to that last conversation on the way to airport. "He said as long as no one knew who I was, I'd be fine, that Dr. Marquéz lived in a very peaceful part of Colombia. But that if anything did happen, I should use my head and sit tight."

"Brilliant advice," she snarled. "What the hell was he thinking?"

Rick shrugged, unable to feel bothered. "Beats me."

* * *

Four nights later, Alex lay on his back, unable to sleep. In the dark jungle, frogs shrieked and millions of insects clicked and whirred, a continuous background buzz that he'd gotten used to except during these dreary nighttime hours, when the horror of their situation pressed on him most heavily.

At least Rick was doing better. Dr. Nina's strict care had thus far kept infection at bay, and although the boy still slept a lot, his appetite was good. Alex suspected he was still in a lot of pain, but he never complained. Today, he had roamed the tiny camp with Juan, the youngest of the rebel group, chatting with the men lounging around the fire. _I swear, he could make friends in a snake pit_, Alex thought.

Life in the rebel camp had immediately settled into a routine. They were fed twice a day and allowed to go down to the river each morning to wash. They were also allowed to roam the clearing with relative impunity, although "clearing" was too generous of a word. The rebels had cleared back the undergrowth and cut down the small saplings in a rough circle that was no more than thirty feet across. But all around the perimeter, mighty trees stretched out their branches, creating an impenetrable canopy overhead. The one time Alex had ventured too near the border of their small space, a sentry had immediately motioned him back. "It's dangerous out there," the man had warned with an ingratiating smile, but Alex had his own suspicions about where the true danger lay.

His thoughts turned to their fellow prisoners. Dr. Nina was, from beginning to end, a godsend. Aside from her expertise in patching up bullet holes (something she'd practiced a lot during her four years as a hostage), her calm demeanor and blunt common sense had done more than anything else to keep Alex from devolving into a state of permanent panic. Cecilia Somerville was harder to read. She spoke little and often sat huddled in the lean-to as though she lacked the energy to move. But Alex had noticed that her eyes constantly followed the movements of the camp, particularly Richard's. The morning after their arrival, she had asked Alex about Richard's presence in Colombia. He'd given her the bare facts about the Bailey shooting, and she had sat in contemplative silence, staring at the cloud of smoke from her cigarette.

At last she had asked, "But why did Wayne send him here?"

"Because I was here," Alex said simply. "He knows I only want what's best for Rick."

"And Richard trusts you."

"Yes."

She let another lungful of smoke trail from her mouth before she asked, "But why did Wayne send him away?"

At first Alex was hurt, not understanding the difference in the question. He was about to defend his own importance in Rick's life, when he realized she wasn't asking about him at all, but about Bruce Wayne. Cecilia kept her eyes on her cigarette while he thought, but when he finally answered, she watched his face. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she read more there than he meant to reveal.

"I don't think Mr. Wayne could handle the emotional stress."

She smiled faintly. "You don't like him."

"Do you?" he flung back.

Her smile deepened. "I can't stand him."

Alex felt a surge of kinship. "I know what you mean," he said impulsively. "And Rick deserves better."

"That's why you stay? To offer Richard a more positive role model?"

It was, but Alex felt faintly embarrassed. "It's not that I think I'm particularly wonderful…"

He trailed off as she waved a dismissive hand. "Don't apologize, I understand." She was still smiling as she took the last drag on her cigarette and dropped the butt to the ground. "That must drive him absolutely crazy," she murmured, laughing at some private joke.

A rustling of undergrowth, just loud enough to be heard over the jungle noises, pulled Alex out of his thoughts. He strained to see through the darkness, and after a moment, a small, dim light appeared on the far side of the clearing. It was hard to see, but Alex thought that three, possibly four people had emerged from the jungle. They moved toward the _teniente_'s lean-to, where the light paused, then moved rapidly toward the prisoners' shelter. Alex saw that it was a man with a shaded flashlight before he shut his eyes. Through his eyelids, he saw the beam of light move over him. _Bed check_, he thought. _Whoever just came in must be important._ After a moment, he heard the man striding away.

Reopening his eyes, he that two tiny red dots now glowed in the _teniente'_s lean-to. _Two people smoking. The teniente and one important guest._ He was straining his ears to hear the murmur of voices over the frogs when something nudged the edge of his pallet. Alex turned his head to see a dark figure slipping beneath the mosquito netting and fading silently into the darkness. Apparently, Cecilia was also interested in the mystery guest.

* * *

Cecilia was sitting in her usual spot in the lean-to when Alex squatted next to her. "Hear anything interesting last night?" he asked conversationally.

She had suspected he was awake last night as she slipped out, and had pondered how much to tell him. Now, after double checking that all other members of the camp were out of earshot, she said, "You're leaving tomorrow. They've arranged an exchange with the government for one of their own people."

Alex grinned in delight. "That's great! Wait." His smile was replaced by a worried frown. "You said one of their people. There are two of us."

"Richard stays," she answered softly, her eyes on one of the guerillas who had altered his path to walk towards them. Alex opened his mouth to protest, and she pinched his arm. Hard. "Don't fight them," she murmured. "Nina and I will take care of the boy." Then the guard was within earshot, and she said more loudly, "You think this is hot? You should have been here last summer, right Geraldo?"

The guerilla laughed and started telling a story about last year's incredible heat. Alex held his tongue, although Cecilia could read his worry in his face. She hoped that he wasn't going to be difficult.

* * *

Rick sat staring into the fire, remembering the sight of Alex's back disappearing into the jungle.

"He'll be all right," Miss Somerville said quietly, squatting next to him. "FARC wants their man back."

Rick frowned and jabbed his stick harder into the fire. "I should be with him."

"He's safer without you," she said bluntly. "He has only himself to worry about now, and frankly, if anyone finds out the truth you'll be a very dangerous companion." The end of his stick caught flame and Rick held it up like a torch. Somerville pulled out a cigarette. "Light this for me?" He held the small flame toward her and she lit her cigarette, then sat cross legged on the ground. "Dr. Peaceable will be fine."

Rick shook his head stubbornly. "He's a scholar. He doesn't know how to …" He gestured helplessly. "He said you said to play along, but what if something goes wrong? He won't know what to do."

"And what could you do that he could not?"

Rick shrugged and started poking the fire again.

"I'm not an idiot, Mr. Grayson. And I've kept an eye on the Gotham news since my last visit out of a sense of ... let's call it curiosity."

Rick looked at her blankly.

Somerville pulled on her cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Of course, I don't expect you to admit anything. But I will tell you something that I did not tell your tutor. Dr. Marquez's compound was not raided by paramilitaries."

"Who was it then?"

"It was FARC."

Rick frowned. "But they rescued us!"

"Do you feel rescued?"

Rick rapidly sorted through the possibilities. "They staged the whole thing? But they take hostages under their own name all the time. Why would this be different?"

"Good question."

"It puts them in a better light," he said slowly, "although we're not anybody special as far as they know. I mean, Dr. Marquez is a genius, but he doesn't have any political …" He trailed off as a pain hazed memory floated to the surface. "He was the target," Rick realized. "They were delivering him to somebody, and they didn't want the responsibility."

"Who did they give him to?" she asked sharply.

"I don't know. I was pretty out of it. But I did hear the guy say he had an appointment in Gotham City."

"But you don't know who this man was?"

"No idea," Rick promised. "Him mentioning Gotham was just a coincidence."

"Tell me exactly what happened at the compound."

"We were playing soccer. The ball went into the trees by the fence, and when Luis came back out with it, there was a man with a rifle behind him. Two others came out from behind the buildings and herded us into the generator shed."

"To hide the noise of the shots," she surmised.

"That's what …" he almost said 'I' but hastily substituted, "we thought."

"How many of you were there?"

"The caretaker and his wife and their three grandchildren. They took Jose Luis out first."

"The caretaker?"

"Yeah. That's when we decided to break out. They didn't have a guard posted on the shed, so it was easy. Maria took the kids and ran for the jungle. I had to find Alex. I … I found Jose Luis on the way. They shot him. Alex and Dr. Marquez were inside the house. One of the men had a gun on Alex, like he was about to shoot him."

"So you jumped through the window."

"It's not like I had any time to think up a good plan," he said defensively. "Alex told them we were American and they could get a ransom for us, so they took us with them."

"They shot the caretaker," she mused, "but put no guard on the rest of you. They wanted you to escape as witnesses to prove paramilitary involvement. You and Dr. Peaceable were a bonus. If they'd known who you were, they wouldn't have put you in with the ones they intended to escape."

"Why would anybody want Dr. Marquez? He's not building a weapons system. He does time theory!"

Somerville shrugged, tossing the butt of her cigarette into the fire. "Who knows why they want what they want? But it's good that you're only an extra hostage. They'll let you go for money. It will only take a little time."

* * *

Cecilia really believed that was true, as long as some misguided rescue effort on the part of Richard's guardian didn't stir up a hornet's nest. Two days later, a smiling teniente came over and told them that Alex had been safely handed over to the Americans, and that in "gratitude," one of his very own brothers had been released. "You see how generous we can be," the teniente boasted. "And soon, young man, we will send you home as well." He offered Rick a cigarette.

That night, the camp had another clandestine visitor. Again, there was a bed check, after which Cecilia crept silently through the darkness to the back of the teniente's lean-to. She thought it was the same man who had visited to announce the trade for Alex, and she hoped he now brought similar news about Rick.

He did, but it didn't make her happy.

"Raul brought word," the visitor said, and even though he whispered his nervousness was evident.

"When do we get what was promised to us?" the teniente asked.

"Raul says _el oscuro_ wants something else."

"That was not part of the deal! We did everything he asked. We gave him the old man, and made it look like paramilitaries."

"Raul says, no delivery until _el oscuro _gets what he wants."

The teniente puffed anxiously on his cigarette before grudgingly asking, "What?"

"The boy."

"Ricardo? He's just the son of a maid."

"They didn't tell Raul why. But if we don't give him the boy, then we get nothing. If we do, we get six American rockets."

The teniente drew in a sharp breath. "Six? Who is this boy?"

"Maybe it's better not to ask."

"Maybe. All right, you can take him out tomorrow. Pretend he's being exchanged and he won't give you any trouble."

Cecilia didn't wait to hear anymore but crept back to the prisoners' shelter. She waited until the glow of the teniente's cigarette disappeared and both men had had time to fall asleep. Then she touched Richard's shoulder. He woke immediately and silently.

"We're leaving," she whispered, and then woke Dr. Nina. "Doctor, we have to go."

Nina shook her head. "Not me."

"Don't be a fool," Cecilia hissed. "If we escape, they'll think you helped us. If you're lucky they'll kill you quickly."

"So make it look like I tried to stop you," the elderly doctor countered. "I made my decision long ago."

Cecilia clenched her fists in frustration, but they had no time to argue. "You'll have to come with us to the river at least."

The sleepy sentry was smoking by the fire, his back turned to them. One by one, they slipped out of the lean-to and over the perimeter into the jungle. Once they had eased around the clearing, they could travel more quickly down the dark path that led to the river. When they were still a few yards away, Cecilia ordered them to wait, while she scouted ahead. The sentry stood yawning over the boats, and she felled him with one blow from a heavy branch. Taking his AK-47 and hastily pulling everything out of his pockets and stuffing it into her own, she returned to Richard and Nina.

It was much too dark to see their faces, so she reached out and grasped the doctor's arm. "Come with us. Please."

Nina placed callused fingers over hers. "God has sent me here, so here I will stay."

"You're a fanatic," Cecilia hissed, losing her temper.

Nine squeezed her hand. "Possibly. But you too have the courage of your convictions." Gently pushing Cecilia's hand away, she gave Richard a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, young man. Don't strain that shoulder."

"Thanks," he whispered as she drew away.

"Hit me," Nina ordered. "Right over the temple."

Cecilia closed her eyes for a moment. "Goodbye, doctor." Lifting the gun, she slammed the butt against Nina's head.

Richard gave a muffled cry and caught the old woman as she crumpled. "What are you doing?"

"She won't go with us. This way, they might believe she didn't help us escape. Put her down, and let's go."

As the boy reluctantly lowered Nina's unconscious form to the ground, a shout echoed through the darkness.

Cecilia swore. "They know we're gone. Come on!" Grabbing Richard's arm, she ran the few yards to the river and jumped into one of the small boats tied to the bank. As soon as the boy was in the boat, she unsheathed the knife she had taken from the guard and sliced the mooring rope. A hard shove with a paddle thrust them into the current's power, as the water carried them silently into the darkness.

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** Well, there it is. Graduate school continues to be crazy, but the real reason the updates have dried up is that I've been working very seriously on an original fantasy novel (I've actually made it to the third draft of this one. Go me!). I've found that I just don't have enough creative energy to go around :( At any rate, I haven't given up hope of finishing this story, but sadly can't make any promises about how sloooooowly the updates will be coming.

Thank you every so much to all you wonderful readers! You are literally the reason I keep picking away at this and haven't shut it up in a file forever.

Finally, several of you have requested the chapter extras. I'm sorry for not responding to you individually, but I will be posting them as a separate story sometime this weekend, so that everybody can have access.


	25. March: A Travelling Tune

**A/N** It's my birthday, I can post if I want to!

As always, thank you, thank you fabuloso reviewers! You rock my world. I appreciated and loved every single message you sent me.

Chapter 24

_They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,  
In a Sieve they went to sea:  
In spite of all their friends could say,  
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,  
In a Sieve they went to sea! _

_-Edward Lear_

Alex sat on the edge of the bed in his air conditioned hotel room. Yesterday, he'd been flown from the Colombian army base where the hostage exchange had been made to the American Embassy at Bogotá. In addition to receiving a medical exam and telephoning his mother, he had been answering questions from both Colombian and American officials for two days. He was now free to go home as soon as he liked, and, in fact, had a seat reserved for him on a plane to Houston, but the thought of leaving Colombia with Richard still missing seemed impossible.

Alex had called Wayne Manor, of course, the moment he'd had access to a phone. In an awkward conversation with Alfred, during which he was painfully aware of the need for secrecy, he'd managed to say that Richard was all right, as far as he knew. He hadn't asked to talk to Wayne and Alfred hadn't offered to switch over the phone. In fact, Alex had no idea what he was going to say to Richard's guardian, and the thought of trying made him feel a little sick.

A soft knock sounded on his room door, and Alex went to look through the peephole, wondering whether someone from the embassy had come to invite him to dinner. His heart skipped in shock when he saw Bruce Wayne standing in the hallway.

Pulling off the security chain and turning the deadbolt, Alex opened the door and gaped at his employer. "What are you doing here?"

"Stupid question, Peaceable," Wayne hissed, shoving past him into the room.

Alex relocked the door. "Right. Rick. But … nobody knows who he really is. Won't your presence raise suspicions?"

"Let's just say I'm traveling incognito," Wayne said coldly.

As Alex's surprise faded, he realized that the man who stood in front of him was not the playboy he knew and despised. A handful of times during his employment as Richard's tutor, he'd seen Wayne shaken out of his shallow egocentrism. Usually, it happened so quickly that afterwards he convinced himself that he'd only imagined it. But there was no imagining away this frozen-eyed, expressionless stranger.

"Start with Richard's arrival, and tell me everything," Wayne said softly.

Alex did.

* * *

"We have to get off the river," Somerville said.

They'd been gliding with the current for over an hour, ignoring the motor and only using the paddles to keep their course straight so that their passage was noiseless.

"Where are we?" Rick whispered.

"The Vaupés river. Somewhere." He thought her whisper sounded entirely too cheerful considering that they were lost in the middle of Amazonian rain forest with the FARC after them.

They paddled to shore and then used the paddles to push the boat back into the pull of the current. It disappeared downstream. "If we're lucky, it will be destroyed by rapids and never seen again," Somerville remarked before they set out along the riverbank. She had a flashlight and after a few feet located a trodden place through the undergrowth that might have been an animal trail. Rick tried not to think about what kind of animals they might run into on this trail in the dark.

They walked for half an hour, and then Cecilia stopped and ran the light over the surrounding trees until she found one with fat vines curling around the trunk and broad branches not more than ten feet off the ground. "We can't go any farther in the dark, and we should try to save the batteries. Up," she ordered. "And watch that shoulder."

Rick grabbed hold of the vines and worked his way up the mossy trunk, trying to favor his injured shoulder. Cecilia followed.

"Are we supposed to sleep up here?" he asked.

"If you can. It's safer up here than on the ground."

"What about jaguars?"

"Lucky for us they're endangered. Not many of them around any more."

He thought he heard a smile beneath the wry comment, so he persisted, "What about snakes? What if I fall out of the tree?"

"Good idea. I bet we could find a boa constrictor to hold you to the tree branch."

More seriously, he asked "What about FARC?"

"They'll search the river first. It was lucky for us they only had the one boat tied up."

"But there were two other boats!" he protested. "At least."

"Not tied up," she said mildly. "By the time they made it down to the river and found the sentry, they had probably been pulled away by the current. Somebody was very careless."

"Lucky for us," he echoed. "So what do we do now?"

"We go north. The next major river we come to will be out of the demilitarized zone."

Rick thought about that. "How far to the next river?"

"About a hundred kilometers."

"Of jungle?" he asked in disbelief. "And we're walking?"

"That's why it's the last direction they would expect us to take. What's the matter, city boy?"

"Oh besides the jaguars, snakes, sleeping in trees, and possibility of getting shot, not much. Hey, Miss Somerville?"

"Richard, we're sleeping in a tree in the middle of DMZ. I think you can call me Cecilia."

"Uh, thanks. So why tonight? Why did we have to run tonight?"

"_El oscuro_ wants you."

"Who?"

"Someone I've never heard them talk about before. But apparently, he thinks you're worth six American rockets. The teniente was going to trade you in the morning."

"The dark one," Rick translated. "You don't think Bruce …"

"No. This was the same person who paid for the kidnapping of Dr. Marquez."

"Did they say whether he's ok?"

"No. I'm sorry."

Rick fell silent. It was only now that he realized that when Cecilia had woken him back at the camp, he had followed her into the darkness without hesitating.

He had thought of her every so often over the years since she had come to Gotham in the guise of a social worker. After he'd begun his training as Robin, Bruce had told him the truth about everything that had happened that winter. He knew about her work for the DEA and the traitor she'd come to Gotham to expose. As he grew older, he'd come to understand the ways she had shielded him during their abduction. He also recalled how cranky she'd been most of the time and that she'd been terrified of his pet mouse.

But mostly, he remembered learning to play chess.

And not a day had gone by since that he hadn't played. If he couldn't actually wheedle someone into a match, he played against himself, read about classic strategies, or analyzed old games. Sometimes he imagined math problems laid out on black and white squares, shifting the components like pieces until they made sense. When real life was too much, as it had been more and more lately, he could retreat to the unchanging board and its immutable rules and feel that, after all, the earth rested on a secure axis.

And through all of this, Cecilia had been there, a brusque, nearly forgotten voice that had ordered the game. Ordered the world.

When he thought it through, it didn't sound like a good reason to get lost with her in the DMZ. But it didn't change the way he felt.

* * *

Alex had already repeated his story several times to various embassy and military officials, so he didn't have to think much as he rattled off the details. Wayne slumped in a chair, listening in silence until Alex narrated the arrival at the guerilla camp. "There were two other prisoners. One was a missionary doctor named Nina Jenkins. The other was Cecilia Somerville."

Wayne sat bolt upright, his face stunned. "What?"

"Richard's old social worker, Cecilia Somerville."

Wayne looked grim. "What the hell was she doing there?"

"I told you, she was a prisoner like us."

"A prisoner? Are you sure?"

"She said so, and she slept in the tent with the rest of us."

"How long had she been there?"

"She said a year and a half. Why does it matter?"

"A year and half. She'd just been sitting around a guerilla camp for a year and a half," Wayne repeated, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

"In the middle of the jungle, guarded by men with big guns. What's the problem? Richard was happy to see her. At least he was with a friend when we were separated."

"You shouldn't have left him," Wayne said coldly.

"What choice did I have?" Alex shot back, although he'd been telling himself the same thing, over and over. "If I'd resisted, FARC might have shot us both."

Wayne's jaw line tensed, but all he said was, "Tell me the rest."

* * *

Rick's eyes fluttered open and he stared at the dim green roof above him. He remembered that he was in the Amazon rainforest, that he'd been kidnapped, that he had escaped, and that he was sleeping in a tree. Carefully patting the rough tree bark on either side of him, he started to sit up.

"Richard, don't move."

He froze at the low command, suddenly aware of a weight sliding over his legs and pulling at the fabric of his pants.

"Don't move," Cecilia repeated.

Rick slowly lifted his head anyway, just enough to see the lithe brown and green body, slowly slipping down from the branch above, landing on his legs and slithering over his feet along the branch. It was as big around as a personal pizza, and the length of it seemed to go on forever as he lay frozen, holding his breath.

"You're doing fine," Cecilia said softly, and then the tail finally sailed down and followed the rest of the snake to the end of the branch and onto the neighboring tree.

Rick exhaled and sat up fast. "I thought you were kidding about the boa constrictor."

"Just trying to broaden your experience. You wouldn't want to go back to Gotham without a snake story."

"You know, I think I would have been okay with that."

They climbed down the tree and paused at the bottom to shake the kinks from their muscles. Cecilia poked around the ferns at the base of the tree and uncovered a metal canteen, covered in stained drab canvas.

Rick stared in surprise. "Where did that come from?"

"I dropped it last night," she said wryly. "Fortunately, I'd gotten the cap back on. Before that it was in the boat." She unscrewed the lid and held it toward Rick. "Drink."

He lifted the canteen to his mouth, but quickly pulled it away again as a strong chemical smell assaulted his nostrils. "Gross."

"That's just the Globaline. It's safer than what we drank at camp, even when Nina succeeded in making them boil it."

"There was Global-whatsit in the boat, too?" he asked, stalling.

"In my pocket. I was saving it for a rainy day. Drink," she ordered again. "Out here, dehydration can kill you."

Rick held his breath and gulped several mouthfuls of the foul tasting water. "I don't suppose there's breakfast?" he asked, handing back the canteen.

Cecilia reached into her pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. "Courtesy of our boat sentry," she said, passing it to him before she drank.

"You're like Mary Poppins," Rick commented, accepting the candy and peeling the wrapper away from the melting chocolate. He wolfed half and tried to hand it back.

Cecilia shook her head. "I already ate mine. I was too hungry to wait for you to wake up. Let's go." She hung the canteen around her neck and strode forward.

"Where are we going?" Rick asked, trying to hurry after her and lick the wrapper clean at the same time.

"North to the Guaviare river. We can follow that upstream out of the DMZ."

"How far is that?" he asked, tucking the wrapper into his pocket.

"A ways. Watch for fruit trees, that was the last chocolate bar."

"How far is a ways?" Rick insisted.

"A hundred kilometers or so."

Rick groaned. "That's the shortest way out of here?"

"No. But it's the one we have the best chance of surviving. If they figure out we left the Vaupés, they'll expect us to go south or west." Cecilia paused to pick up a stout stick, which she used to part the vines that hung over their path.

"Why is that?" Rick asked as he stepped through the cleared space, not sure he really wanted to know.

"Those are the closest towns. North, they can expect the jungle to do their work for them."

Rick thought about that for a while as they trudged through endless mounds of dead leaves and rotting ferns. "You think it's better to die out here than get caught by FARC again," he said at last.

"Yes," she answered.

Rick didn't know whether he agreed with her or not.

* * *

"Show me," Wayne said, pulling a map of the country out of his pocket and laying it flat on the table.

"I don't know," Alex responded, which was what he had told the embassy. "I don't even know what direction we traveled."

"This is Marquez's compound," Wayne continued, as though he hadn't heard. "How many hours in the truck?"

"Eight. Ten. I don't know."

Wayne traced a rough circle on the map, then tapped on a wavy line. "The river had to be the Vaupés."

"That's what the embassy thought," Alex agreed.

"Do you think Somerville is still there?"

Alex blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think she's escaped?"

"I don't think so," Alex said slowly. "She had a routine—gambling for cigarettes, eavesdropping on the captain. Her attention was focused on coping where she was, not looking for ways to escape."

"When you left, did she give you any messages?"

"Yeah," Alex said slowly, remembering. "She caught me right before we left. She said to tell you not to do anything stupid."

"That's it?" Wayne asked tersely.

"Yes."

Wayne swung away from the table and paced once across the room, came back. "Say the camp is here," he said, jabbing a finger at a spot along the river. "Looking at the map, how would you escape?"

Alex stared at the outline of the river. "I guess I'd steal a boat," he said at last. "And then ride the river out of the DMZ."

"That would be the easiest way, wouldn't it?" Wayne muttered. Then he folded up the map and stepped toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Alex asked.

"To find Richard? Or did you think this conversation was because I missed you? By the way, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mentioned seeing me."

"I'm coming with you," Alex said.

"The hell you are."

* * *

Cecilia rested her chin on her knees and wished she dared smoke a cigarette. They'd been tramping through the jungle for hours, and she had called a break when she felt her legs shaking. She'd never quite recovered from her last bout of malaria, and now she worried again that she lacked the strength to make it out of the DMZ. She was also concerned about Richard. He hadn't complained, but he looked pale, and she knew his shoulder hurt.

_Dammit, Wayne. We could use one of your heavy handed extractions right about now._ It was difficult to believe he had sent his ward to Colombia without any kind of emergency contact plan. A wisp of memory teased the edge of her consciousness, and she closed her eyes and tried to remember a long ago night in a far away city.

"Richard, are those your shoes?" she asked suddenly. "The ones you originally brought to Colombia?"

He looked down at the battered sneakers and shook his head. "No, one of mine got ripped up by a dog at the compound, so I was borrowing these to play soccer in."

_Shoes are too easily lost. He wouldn't have stayed with shoes._

"Why are you scowling at me?" Richard asked.

"Ah." Cecilia's expression cleared. "Show me your scars."

He looked like he wanted to ask why, but instead jerked up one leg of his jeans. "That's where I fell off my bike when I was eight. And that's where I fell on a rusty nail."

She pushed hard on each of the scars and shook her head. "Got anything bigger?"

It was in his shoulder that hadn't been shot, underneath a scar that Richard claimed was a six years old sledding accident. Cecilia probed the almost indiscernible lump and nodded. "That's it."

"What's it?" he demanded.

"A homing chip. Wayne's got you tagged like an endangered tuna."

He looked stunned. "He knows where I am all the time? But … If he does, why are we still here?"

"This is the jungle, Richard. Whole planes are swallowed up and never found. And whatever isn't being absorbed by the trees is covered up by the rest of the signals that flood this place. Military, paramilitaries, FARC are all trying to communicate and jam everybody else's signals. But it might be useful if we ever get clear of the trees." She rose and stretched. "Come on. We need to make a few more kilometers before dark."

* * *

There were a lot of things that Alex didn't know.

He didn't know how he'd talked Wayne into letting him come (he'd suggested his Spanish skills, his familiarity with Colombian culture, and his time with the guerillas as assets. Wayne had dismissed it all, and then said, "Peaceable, if you slow me down, I'll truss you up and throw you into the jungle myself," which statement Alex had interpreted as his employer's version of "Glad to have you along").

He didn't know where Wayne had picked up his obvious familiarity with the roads.

He didn't know where they were going, but fervently prayed they would arrive in the same number of pieces they had started out in.

He didn't know why the familiar stranger next to him scared him so much.

He didn't know why he felt so confident that they were going to get Richard back.

* * *

Rick lay back on his tree branch and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in his stomach. Further along the same branch, Cecilia sat upright, her legs dangling over the edge. Even though she was less than five feet away, Rick could just barely see her silhouette in the darkness. Around them, insects shrilled, cutting off when a larger animal crashed through the underbrush and picking up when all was calm again. He remembered the snake and repressed a shudder, hoping he wasn't sleeping in the middle of anybody's road tonight.

"Why are you lost in the DMZ, Richard Grayson?"

The question out of the darkness pressed a weight of loneliness around his heart. He closed his eyes against the night and wondered why she asked him. He was pretty sure she had grilled Alex about their reasons for being in Colombia.

Silence grew between them, but Cecilia waited patiently. He imagined that she would wait forever, there in the darkness. And to his surprise, he found that he wanted to tell her the truth. Not "There's a serial killer loose in Gotham who might be after me," and not "I saw my classmate kill himself." He wanted to speak to whole truth, even though he wasn't quite sure what that was.

"Bruce changed," he began, and then stopped, the old habit of secrecy not so easily cast aside.

"After you became Robin?" she asked, making it easy for him.

"Maybe he didn't change. Maybe I never really knew him. I always knew what he was, but I didn't know … I didn't know Batman. I thought I did, but I didn't. He scares me sometimes," Rick admitted, which was something he'd never even told Alfred. "And it scares when I think that I'm becoming like him. I don't think he likes it either." He sighed, trying to figure out how to explain what he meant. "Before David shot himself, all I was thinking about was how to take the gun away. I assessed him as a threat, as a target. But maybe I'd been thinking like Richard instead of like Robin, things would have been different. So I don't know why I'm lost in the DMZ. Maybe it's because I was doing a bad job. Or maybe it's because I was doing a good one."

"If it's any consolation to you, Richard Grayson," said Cecilia, "you will never become Bruce Wayne. Not even if you live a thousand years."

Rick shook his head, even though she couldn't see him. "I'm already like him."

"I grant you, you are both obsessed with doing the right thing, whatever that may be. And you both rack yourselves with guilt when you think that you've failed. But if it's the isolation you're afraid of, the loneliness and the bitterness, I promise that it won't happen to you."

"Why not?" Rick asked.

"Because you are stronger than he is. You always have been. And because of that, you have never been alone." She fell silent, and Rick thought the conversation was over. But then she said, "You're not going to forget David. And you'll never stop asking yourself whether you could have stopped him."

Rick found that his cheeks were wet, and then he buried his face against his knees and sobbed. Cecilia didn't speak again until the storm passed, and the tears dried into stiff streaks on his cheeks. Then she said, "Next time a madman has a gun to a head, whether it's his, or anybody else's, you'll stop him."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Because I know everything," she answered. "Now go to sleep."

He did. And for the first time since David Stern had died, he slept in peace.

_To be continued_


	26. March: To Be Sung in a Round

**A/N** Gold star for me. Huge thanks as always to reviewers! It's hard for me to believe you all are still interested in reading this story after all the massive delays. You rock!

Chapter 25

_Scotland's burning, Scotland's burning,_

_Look out! Look out!_

_Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!_

_-Folk Song_

"I can't believe I'm actually helping my dad carry out his completely corny plan," Barbara grumbled, staring down at the gift bag in her lap. Ever since the riot, Gordon had been forced to keep an extremely low profile. Now it was Sarah's birthday, and he had asked Barbara to help with the secret surprise plan.

"Hey, it's all part of the new and better Barbara, right?" Trevor asked lightly, pulling the car up to the curb.

"Yeah, yeah." Barbara heaved a huge sigh as she stared out the window at Sarah's modest house. A row of flowerpots with dead leaves hanging over the edges stood in a line in front of the garage, a yellow smiley face beaming out from one of them.

"It's laughing at me," Barbara said, staring at the pot.

Trevor rolled his eyes. "You'd better hurry up and go in, or we're going to be late picking her up."

Barbara climbed out of the car and trudged up the walk. The key was hidden under the smiley face plant where her dad had said it would be. Letting herself in through the garage side door, she put the gift bag on the kitchen counter and went back outside. "What kind of cop puts smiley faces on her flower pots, anyway?" she muttered, as she re-hid the key and turned the pot so that the face was angled away from Trevor's car. "And what kind of cop is stupid enough to put the key under a flowerpot?"

They made the drive to the police station in silence. "You'd better go in," Trevor said, when he pulled up in front.

"Right." Barbara climbed out again and went inside. "I'm looking for Detective Essen," she told the front desk officer.

The man pointed over her shoulder. "She's right there."

"Barbara, is everything all right?" Sarah asked, looking concerned.

"Oh, totally fine." Barbara stared at Sarah's smiling face and wished the woman wouldn't look so sincerely friendly. _You should hate me. Really._ "But there was some mix-up with the car that was supposed to pick you up, so Dad asked me and Trevor to give you a ride. I hope that's ok."

Sarah shrugged. "Sure. Thank you."

"Yeah, well, he's waiting outside," Barbara blurted, and then mentally kicked herself for sounding so abrupt.

On the ride back to the house, she had never felt so grateful for Trevor's gift for empty conversation. He managed to make a discussion of the weather last almost all the way. The silence that filled the car during the last block felt heavy, but then they were at the house, and Sarah was climbing out. "Thank you, guys."

"Anytime," Trevor said easily.

Barbara gave a little wave, then frantically rolled down her window. "Hey, Sarah!"

The detective turned around on the front walk. "Yes?"

"Happy birthday."

"Thank you." She smiled before turning around and starting again toward the house.

Barbara slumped back in her seat as Trevor powered the window up, and stuck her tongue out at the jeering smiley face. "Why is everything I say to her so awkward?"

"You haven't actually apologized yet, have you?"

"No, and I can't even imagine how awkward _that's_ going to be."

She sat in a glum silence until Trevor pulled onto the freeway. "So what exactly is your dad's plan?" he asked as he merged.

"There's some sort of clue in the bag that will tell her where to go for her romantic birthday surprise." Barbara repressed the impulse to make a gagging noise.

"What is the surprise?"

"I don't know. Probably dinner at some fancy restaurant. He asked Grandma whether he should cook a birthday dinner, but she told him absolutely not. There's nothing less romantic than my dad's cooking."

"Is that it?" Trevor pressed.

"I'm sure he got her a present too."

"I mean, he's not going to propose or anything."

"No!" Barbara exclaimed. "I mean, he wouldn't do that without talking to me and Jimmy. No way."

"I'm sure not," Trevor said hastily. "I was just wondering whether he'd said anything to you."

"Believe me, you would have heard about it before now." She laid her fingers on her chest and pushed the hard circle of her mom's wedding ring against her skin. Despite her new resolve to be nice to Sarah, it was much too hard to think of her dad actually marrying somebody else. Somebody not Mom. _Not yet, Dad. Please, don't marry her yet._

The smiley face had laughed at her as they drove away.

"Trevor, turn around," she said suddenly, her hand closing into a fist over the ring.

"What?" he asked, zooming past a pickup and slipping in behind a convertible.

"We have to go back to Sarah's house, right now!"

"She's probably already left for your dad's surprise."

"Just go!"

Trevor cut across two lanes, causing an SUV to slam on its breaks and its horn, and swerved onto the exit ramp. "What's going on?" he demanded, as he drove under the overpass and got back on the freeway.

"That flower pot with the smiley face. I angled it so we couldn't see it when we parked on that side of the street, but when we dropped Sarah off it was turned back."

"So maybe the neighbor kids saw you hide the key and decided to mess around. I'm sure she can handle them."

"Trevor, what if she's the answer to the riddle? My dad assumed it was me because I have the same name as my mom, but what if it's her?"

Trevor glanced at her, and then pushed his foot down on the accelerator. "Can you call her?"

"I'm working on it," Barbara muttered, scrolling through her past calls. She finally found the right number and hit call. It rang six times before going to voice mail. "She's not answering."

* * *

Cecilia stumbled and Rick grabbed her arm before she could fall. "I'm pretty tired," he said. "Could we take a break?"

"You are a very tactful young man," she said, sitting down on a arching tree root.

"We've been hiking through the jungle for forever. I really am tired."

"How's your shoulder?" she asked, offering him the canteen.

He made a face and gulped before answering. "It's all right."

"I don't believe you." She closed her eyes and rested her head against the tree trunk. "But there's nothing I can do about it."

Rick recapped the canteen and handed it back. "How long ago did you have malaria?"

"A year. But I relapsed about three months ago. Nina pulled me through." She took a drink and hung the canteen back around her neck, but made no move to get up.

Overhead, a monkey screamed, and was joined by a dozen others. Rick frowned, trying to pinpoint a sound beyond the racket. "Cecilia, do you hear that?"

"Truck engine," she said after a moment. Standing up, she paced in a circle, listening intently. "Which direction?"

"This way," Rick said, pointing west.

"I agree. Come on." She plunged into the trees and Rick scrambled to catch up.

"I thought we were avoiding people," he said as he shoved through a giant fern.

"I'm hoping we're far enough north that whoever that is won't know about us."

"You hope?"

"Do you want a ride or not?"

Another twenty yards west, they stumbled onto a rough track that looked as though it may have been mowed down by a tank. The roar of the engine was much louder, and Cecilia pulled Rick back out of sight. "Whatever happens, Grayson, keep your mouth shut. The last thing we need is for them to hear your accent."

"You're hurting my feelings," Rick hissed, and then the truck jolted into view. An old and battered Toyota pickup, it had a fence of wooden slats affixed to each side of the bed creating a fence to hold in piled supplies. As the vehicle rattled passed, they could see that only two people rode in the cab, and the back was half full of sacks.

"Looks like our lucky day," Cecilia breathed and then she stepped out onto the road and waved her arms. Ahead of her, the truck bounced to a halt, engine still running. Cecilia jogged up to the cab window and spoke with a driver. After a minute, she beckoned Rick to join her, and the two of them climbed into the back, finding seats on sacks of rice, between bunches of bananas.

"What did you tell them?" Rick asked quietly, as the truck bounced forward over the track.

"That you barely escaped when paramilitaries attacked your village. I rescued you, and now I'm taking you to your aunt up north before I rejoin my commander. They'll drop us off at the river, before they make their delivery."

"Who are they?" Rick asked, peering through the back cab window at their unwitting rescuers. The man and woman wore t-shirts and blue jeans instead of fatigues, and he saw no weapons.

"FARC sympathizers. Their son, who is your age, joined a year ago, and they take him and his company supplies from their farm. By the way, you haven't spoken since you saw your parents slaughtered, so pipe down."

Rick slumped down on his bag of rice. Cecilia settled into the corner of the truck bed and smoked her last cigarette. After a while, Rick scooted across to sit next to her, so that he could whisper. "The trees are thinner along the road. Do you think I'm transmitting?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. There's nothing we can do about it right now."

It was after dark when the truck rattled to a stop. Rick heard the rushing of a river, and then the driver stepped out of the cab and came around to the back. "_El Guaviare_," he said, pointing.

"_Muchas gracias, Se__ñ__or_," Cecilia answered, hopping down and gesturing for Rick to follow.

The farmer broke off a cluster of bananas from one of his bunches and handed them to Rick. "_Vaya con Dios, comrade_," he said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Two kilometers until we're out of the jungle, and then one more to a village," Cecilia told Rick as they hiked along the river bank.

"They seemed nice," Rick said reflectively, starting on his third banana.

"You don't feel guilty for lying to them, do you?" Cecilia asked.

"No," he said hastily. "But I think they might have been glad to help anyway, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Cecilia answered. "But you should believe that."

The trees grew thinner as they traveled on, and then Rick smelled smoke. _Fires_, he thought hopefully. _Houses. Food_.

The smoke stung his nostrils and burned his eyes, but he was too tired to understand what it meant, until they finally broke through the tree line. Beyond dark fields, an entire village was burning.

* * *

Barbara was out of the car before Trevor shut off the engine, and ran up the walk to pound on the front door. "If Sarah's in there she can't answer," she told Trevor as he came up behind her.

"Shhh," he said, tilting his head. "Do you hear that?"

The quiet rumble of an engine came from the garage. "Oh dear God," Barbara breathed, and ran to pound on the garage door. "Sarah!"

Trevor flipped over the flowerpot. "The key is gone," he said, but Barbara was already running around the side of the garage, to the windows. Wrenching a rock out of the border of the flowerbed, she slammed it through the glass. Fumes poured out, stinging her eyes. "Trevor!" she shouted, frantically breaking out more glass until she could reach through and unlock the frame.

"Lift me up!" she demanded, as her boyfriend skidded to a stop beside her.

"Open the door as soon as you get in," he warned as he lifted her up, and then she was wriggling through the small space and falling over the tool shelves that filled the space beneath the window. She saw a figure in the car, but ran to the door first and hit the switch, coughing as the exhaust filled her lungs.

Trevor ducked under the rising door, and together they tugged on the car door handles. "It's locked," Barbara groaned, gasping gratefully as cold air poured in through the open door. She could see Sarah slumped over the steering wheel, a trickle of blood on her temple. Scanning the tools she had knocked down, she snatched up a hammer.

"Not next to her head," Trevor warned, so she threw him the hammer, and let him smash in the passenger side window. It took three blows to break through the safety glass, and then he hit the locks and she was fumbling at Sarah's seatbelt and pulling her body from the car. Trevor ran around and hoisted Sarah over his shoulder, carried her outside and away from the poisonous fumes. "Call 911!"

Barbara found her phone and made the call, and then she called her father. It wasn't until she heard Gordon's voice that she realized she was crying.

"Barbara? Sweetheart, what's wrong?" His voice crackled out of her cell, and she found that she couldn't speak, that she was frozen with terror.

On the driveway, Sarah stirred.

"It's all right, Daddy," said Barbara. "She's going to be all right."

* * *

Somebody was crashing through the low bushes that filled the field the field in front of them. More silhouettes appeared, pursuing, and then came a spatter of staccato. The lead runner fell. Cecilia pulled Rick back into the trees as more shots sounded over the distant roaring of the fires.

"Back along the river," she started to say, when bullets zinged from behind them and slammed into the trees.

They ran, tripping over roots and running into low hanging branches in the darkness as the firefight raged around them. "Who's fighting who?" Rick gasped, when they crouched for a moment at the base of a tree.

"Doesn't make a difference in the bullets," said Cecilia. "We have to find shelter."

They hurried on, dodging dark figures and ducking at every loud crack. When Richard tripped and fell full length, Cecilia bent to help him up, and set her hand on an iron ring. "Help me," she hissed, and together they hauled up a heavy trap door. A net screen of leaves and branches was attached to it, so that even in daylight, it would have been nearly invisible.

They shut the door after them and fell down the short ladder, landing on a damp concrete floor. Cecilia pulled the flashlight out of her pocket and shone it around. They sat in a concrete cell, about nine by twelve feet. Wooden boxes took up all the floor space along one wall, and next to the ladder rested an oil lantern and a box of matches. "Richard," she began, but he was already opening a match box. A moment later, clear light flooded the cell, and they could see the blankets and the stack of canned food.

"A bolt hole," Rick said approvingly. "Do you think it belongs to FARC or the paramilitaries?"

Cecilia shut off the flashlight and lifted the canvas cover off one of the boxes. "Neither," she said, holding up a clear plastic bag full of white powder.

"Narcos?" Rick asked.

She nodded, dropped the bag back into the box. "The good news is, there's a chance nobody up there knows about this place."

"What's the bad news?" Rick asked.

"The cartels make FARC look like boy scouts. Hopefully, we'll be gone before they find out we were here."

Rick grimaced. "They don't like guests, huh? That is a lot of cocaine."

Cecilia eyed the boxes with a professional eye. "A hundred kilos at least. Don't touch it."

"No duh." Rick adjusted the lantern wick and began looking through the stack of cans. "Do you want peaches or beans?"

"Later," she said. First we have to make sure Wayne finds us without giving our position away to every psycho with a gun. You're definitely transmitting by now, so it won't be long." Digging in her pocket, she produced the stub of a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper.

"You really are Mary Poppins," Rick told her.

"Go take your spoonful of sugar," she told him, and hunched over her paper.

Rick ate the beans, along with a bottle of water (he automatically made a face before the first sip, having almost forgotten what water without Globaline tasted like), while she wrote. When she finished, she folded it up and exchanged her pencil for a pocket knife. Unfolding the largest blade, she tested its sharpness and then held the tip in the lantern flame.

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?" Rick asked.

"Yes. You'd better find something to bite."

He pulled off his shirt and clenched a folded sleeve between his teeth. "Go ahead," he muttered. He felt her fingernails prodding the old scar on his shoulder, and then hot knife sliced into his skin. Rick groaned and shut his eyes against the black spots that danced in his vision.

"Got it," she said, and he slumped in relief, the burning in his cut shoulder now matching that in his shot shoulder. He was pretty sure the bullet wound was infected, but there was nothing to be done about it.

The chip was wafer thin and round, the size of a nickel. Cecilia wiped the blood off on the edge of shirt, and dropped the chip and the note into Rick's empty water bottle. "I'll be back in ten minutes," she said. "Lock the door behind me."

It took her rather longer than ten minutes, and Rick was almost ready to take one of the rifles he found stored behind one of the boxes (along with a number of grenades and other explosives), when she rapped on the trap door.

"I almost couldn't find my way back," she explained, collapsing next to the ladder and accepting the can of peaches Rick opened for her.

"What did you do with the bottle?" he asked.

"I hid it. No one will find it unless they're tracking the chip." She set the peaches aside, three quarters uneaten. "We should sleep. Wayne will be here by morning."

* * *

Barbara sat by the hospital bed, her eyes glued to Sarah's pale face. Gordon had been forced to leave, to look at the riddle and the new set of clues that had been left in the garage, and Barbara had offered to stay. It wasn't necessary, given the security detail posted just outside the door, but she didn't care. She wasn't leaving until she had a chance to talk to Sarah.

The detective had woken earlier, in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and the doctors were confident she would make a full recovery. She had fallen asleep, however, and the clock hands were inching toward midnight.

Barbara stood and walked over to the window, threading both hands through her hair. She felt limp with exhaustion, and her body ached, but she could not go home. Not yet.

She turned around to look at the bed and found that Sarah's eyes were open and watching her. "How do you feel?" Barbara asked, hurrying back to her chair.

"Awful," Sarah whispered.

"I hear that's a side effect of carbon monoxide," Barbara offered, in a feeble attempt at a joke.

Sarah's smile was equally weak. "I hear you saved my life."

"Trevor helped," she said automatically.

The detective shook her head slightly, but seemed too tired to argue. She glanced at the glowing green number of the bedside clock and said, "It's really late. You should go home. I'll tell Jim I sent you."

"I'm not here because Dad made me stay." Barbara rubbed her palms against the legs of her jeans, trying to calm the agitation she felt rising in her chest. "I had to ask you something. Why didn't you tell Dad what happened at the department store, the things I said?"

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, searching for words. "Your dad worships the ground you walk on," she said at last. "And despite what you obviously think, I'm not going to do anything to come between the two of you."

Barbara clenched her fists, trying desperately to stuff everything back inside, but it wouldn't fit. "I knew something was happening to you. I made Trevor turn the car around. And all I could think about," her eyes blurred, and she sniffed defiantly, "was that you were going to die and you thought that I hated—" Her voice broke, and huge, ugly sobs clawed their way out of her chest.

Sarah pushed herself up off her pillows and tugged on Barbara's arms until the girl lay facedown in her lap. She put her arms around her, and laid her cheek on top of the shining copper hair.

"We had a fight," Barbara gasped. "The night my mom left we had a fight, just like in some stupid movie. I wouldn't let her hug me, and I never saw her again."

"Your mom would never want you to blame yourself for that," Sarah whispered.

"I know that, I know that, I know that, and it doesn't help!" Barbara beat her fists against the blanket as the sobs continued to tear out of her.

"Ok sweetheart," Sarah whispered, tightening her arms. "Ok."

_To Be Continued_

**A/N** So, I know this was a shorter chapter with no Bruce in it, but I promise the next one will be all Bruce, and then after that we're back in Gotham.

Cheers and much love!


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